Before the Dawn
by A Ghost in Winterfell
Summary: Lyanna Stark delivers her child into the world, alone and terrified of the what the future will bring. Night is darkest just before the dawn, so they say. But when all hope seems lost, even the smallest of changes can have a huge impact and the she-wolf would do anything to protect her pup. LyannaLives! AU.
1. Dragon Spawn

**Throughout the writing of my other story (A Place of Greater Safety), I really wanted Lyanna to be alive somewhere so she and Jon could be reunited for the ultimate happy ending. It wouldn't have worked in that one, but a companion story made sense. So, here it is: Lyanna Lives! The first few chapters will deal with Jon's birth and Lyanna's recovery, but that will be followed by a time jump. The only other arbitrary change I've made is bringing the events of the books forward by one year (so Jon is thirteen) – purely because it's an age where kids still need their mum and I'm aiming for emotional impact! **

**Finally, there is a proper sequel for APoGS being written, but it won't be ready for some time yet. So in the meantime, please enjoy this. Thank you.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter One: Dragon Spawn<strong>

"No; it cannot be so." Lyanna's voice was toneless, uncomprehending as she backed away from the outstretched hand of Ser Arthur Dayne. He was holding something in his clenched fist. "It cannot be so." But as she dumbly repeated the words, Ser Arthur opened his hand to reveal a large ruby sitting prettily in his palm. It caught and splintered the broad morning sunlight that spilled indecently into her chamber inside the Tower of Joy, glowing a deep magenta that made it look alive. Her breath came in a sharp gasp as she recognised it; a body blow that made her stagger backwards again and bump into a dresser. The jolt over-turned a vase of blue roses, glass shattering against the stone floor and sweet scented water pooling over her bare feet.

Ser Arthur was swift to react and caught Lyanna's fall just as her knees buckled. "Please, my lady, lie down. If not for you, then for the babe – the Prince will live on in him, don't you see? You carry the only surviving heir now."

She could not see. Not in that moment, at least. All she could see was Gregore Clegane tearing open her swollen belly and skewering the infant she carried while it was still inside her. Powerless to resist, she clutched at the front of Ser Arthur's tunic, steadying herself as he led her to the bed and helped her lie down.

"Th-the Mountain," she stammered through her terror, "the Mountain-"

"Is still in King's Landing, a long way away," Ser Arthur tried to assure her.

Suddenly, a fresh wave of panic hit her and she struggled to sit up. "My brother," she gasped, staring up at Ser Arthur through wide, wild eyes. "Where is my brother? Does he live?"

"Lord Stark lives and was last seen in King's Landing, with the Usurper."

Finally, a small ray of light penetrated the blackness of her grief. But almost as soon as she allowed herself that one merciful sigh of relief, her thoughts swerved once more to Rhaegar. Rhaegar whom she had loved with a devastating tenderness she did not know she possessed. His loss seemed all the more acute after having experienced the brief and pallid joy from hearing of Ned's survival.

"We still have milk of the poppy," he said, pressing the ruby into her hand.

She closed her hand over the gem, its chipped edges digging into her palm. "I can't. It will be bad for the baby. Just give me space; I can't breathe."

A frown darkened his lilac eyes. Eyes that reminded her of his sister, Ashara. Although clearly reticent to do as she asked, he eventually bowed elegantly to her before backing out of the room. Only once she was alone did she finally allow herself to succumb to the grief. Hot, fat tears of anguish spilling down her face and soaking into the feather pillow. She wept so hard that the baby inside her kicked and squirmed, making her cry out breathlessly as she sat bolt upright.

Her long dark hair had been carefully plaited that morning, but had now come loose as she tossed and turned on the bed, trying to get comfortable for the sake of her baby. Soon, she knew, they would have to flee. Regardless of what Ser Arthur had told her, she knew that Lannister forces could kick down her door at any minute and thoughts of Elia filled her mind once more. Thoughts that brought with them shame and guilt. But it was all too late for that now, she knew.

As the first storm of grief slowly passed, she felt herself grow limp with exhaustion. Her limbs felt like lead, so she simply sprawled haphazardly across the mattress. There, she drifted off into a shallow sleep that was filled with fevered dreams of rushing rivers, of glittering rubies smashed from black enamelled armour – the three headed dragon decapitated and blinded; gushing waters red with its sacred blood. Even as she fought to regain consciousness, the waters kept on rushing through her mind. Dreams carrying into the real world as she woke up wet. Slick with sweat, and soaked sheets tangled round her legs. Simultaneously, a slow pain came lancing through her gut, gathering speed and intensity that soon knocked the breath from her lungs.

It receded as swiftly as it came, causing her to fall back against the pillows fighting for breath. She closed her eyes and regulated her heartbeat with a force of will. Cautiously, she raised one knee and used her foot to test the wet patch that had gathered beneath her loins, listening to the squelch of the excess water that had pooled there. Remembering the dreams, she knew it couldn't possibly have come from there; which left only one other explanation – it had come from her.

Outside, dusk was starting to settle. But there was still just enough light to see by. She lifted her head to look down at the mattress she lay on, to the blood streaked damp of where her natal waters had broken. The realisation brought on another spasm of pain. Hot, intense agony that made her whole body feel like it was being torn apart from within. Now she cried out. She cried out so loud she thought her own throat would tear. Unlike the first, this contraction went on and on, until she thought her body really had caved in on itself.

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><p>"I don't see babes; I only see dragon spawn."<p>

Robert's furious words still rang sharply in Ned's ears. They formed an echo going round and round in his head. That wasn't his Robert speaking; the man he loved as a brother. That had been some blood crazed monster that had taken on the appearance of Robert Baratheon. All the same, those words had induced in Ned a rage so towering that he knew he could not remain in King's Landing a moment longer. If he had stayed, his first service to the realm could well have been to join the ranks of Jaime Lannister and make himself a Kingslayer, and to a King that had barely had time to position his arse on the iron throne.

"Lord Stark, do you not think you should have at least told His Grace the news?"

"His Grace!" Ned's tone dripped venom as he replied to Howland Reed.

The little Crannogman was sat beside him on the ship that had just docked in Dorne. Lord Reed winced against Ned's uncharacteristically harsh tone. Realising that he was starting to scare the other man, Ned drew a deep steadying breath and measured his tone. Two pieces of news awaited him when he reached King's Landing. The first was that he had become a father to a healthy baby boy. The second was that Rhaegar Targaryen had taken his sister to Dorne, to a place called the Tower of Joy and that, to the best of the message bearer's knowledge, she was still alive and well. But as he went to convey this information to King Robert, he had walked in on a heated argument about the slain Targaryen babies. The memory of the following conversation still made Ned's stomach heave, as they stormed over the two that had gotten away.

"Where are the others?" he asked of Howland. "We've docked and there's no time to lose."

A quick glance outside the cabin porthole showed him it was growing dark. The skies overhead a dusky purple, with the first stars just starting to twinkle. But it did not matter to him; he would ride all through the night and all through the next day if need be; so long as he found his little sister. Meanwhile, Howland had left the cabin. Ned heard the door click shut, sealing him in once more. Again, he looked out into the darkening skies. "Lyanna," he murmured quietly, before turning to the same door Howland had just walked through.

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><p>To distract herself from the rapidly increasing pain, Lyanna managed to crawl across the floor of the bed chamber. She reached the shards of broken glass from the fallen vase, and gathered up the blue roses in her trembling hands. Already, the heat of the day just passed had turned their rich blue petals brown at the edges. But she needed something to do, something that did not involve thinking about Rhaegar, between molten contractions. Once she had them, she conveyed them back to her bed; pausing half way to suffer another bout of pain. Her knees chaffed against the stone floor, but she scarcely felt it against the contraction that seized her. But it did pass, eventually, and she was able to make it back to her bed.<p>

Climbing back into that bed felt like climbing a mountain. She had to tackle it in stages. First, her hands gripping the opposite side of the mattress, then drawing her bloodied knees up one at a time and finally hauling herself up with every ounce of strength she had left in her. Making matters worse was, every so often, one of her three guards knocking at her door and demanding progress reports.

"Just leave me alone!" she had screamed through the door to Ser Gerold Hightower.

To distract herself from the violence of her own labour, she shredded the petals of the roses she had just rescued from the floor. Rhaegar's ruby was beneath her pillow, where it was kept safe. But she dug her nails in to the petals, pulling at them as another contraction came rapidly after the last. Wave after wave of pain now washed over her, so fast she could not even cry out. All she could do was gasp for air and bear down on herself, pushing and heaving, groaning like a wounded animal. Her groin felt as though it was being prized open with red hot pincers, straight from the forge. Pulling and tearing at her muscle. But no matter how hard she pushed, all that seemed to come out was blood. Great clots of blood, washed out on a tide of even more blood.

It was then that it occurred to her she was dying. The pain alone was inhuman, the feeling of her narrow hips being torn open and the gouts of black blood slipping down her thighs soon confirmed her darkest fears. Chest heaving; body slick with sweat, Lyanna lay trembling against a bank of plumped up pillows and used the narrow space of time between contractions to gather her thoughts. She would probably die, but her baby would live. If his life cost her's, then so be it – it was a price she willingly paid. For her sake; for Rhaegar's; for the babes slain by the monstrous Clegane, their lives would not be in vain and the Targaryen line would survive.

"I am a wolf; I am a Stark of Winterfell…"

She rasped the words from cracked lips, over and over. Fear hardened into anger as she pulled herself up onto all fours and bore down on herself with a strength and fury that seemed to come from nowhere. Grasping onto the wooden bars of the headrest until her knuckles turned white, she clenched her teeth and bore down again with an animal force. Now she could feel it; crowning slowly, the baby's head peeking out, spurring her onwards to push and heave.

"I am the blood of the wolf!" she raged against another contraction.

There was no break in the spasms now. It was one long, continuous compulsion to strain against her own body.

"Are you a babe or a fully grown Destrier?!"

The heat was unbearable. Outside her window, the night was only just curling at the edges against the promise of an impending dawn. But inside that room, it was though every furnace had been lit and stoked to out-blaze the midday sun, despite the open top window. Her night rail was soaked with blood, sweat, natal waters and only the Gods knew what else. In disgust, she tore the garment off, no longer caring that she was naked and one of the guards could enter at any minute. All she wanted was this inhumanly colossal baby out of her.

It was as the first rays of a golden dawn properly pierced the darkness that it finally happened. Lyanna had fallen back against the pillows and turned her face towards the long, narrow window of her chamber to bear witness to her final sunrise. One last contraction, one last cry of effort and suddenly, it seemed, there was silent baby looking up at her from amidst soiled sheets and shredded rose petals. Wet, slippery and streaked with blood; she looked at him and he looked at her. Already she knew she would gladly do it all again.

One of the Kingsguard had left a towel and a basin of fresh water by the bedside, but she didn't have the strength to drag it over to her bedside. After cutting the cord with Rhaegar's old hunting knife which had been left in the beside drawer, she reached for the towel. Swaddling him tight, she clutched him to her bare breast as she wept; hot, cleansing tears falling from her eyes straight on to the baby's head. She could taste the salt as she kissed them away.

"There, there," she cooed, as though it was the baby crying. But he remained silent in her arms. "There, there; my sweetling."

Something outside was on fire. The smoke was drifting through the open window, but she paid no heed. The only thing left in her world now was the infant cradled in her arms. Weak and disorientated, Lyanna reached over to the bedside drawer once more. On top of it was the previous day's roses, still sitting in a second vase of water. She plucked one out and held it under the baby's tiny, squashed nose. The distant sound of raised voices sounded; the clash of steel on steel, and she knew the Lannisters had found her. But she had no strength left to run; no place left to hide. All she had was her baby, whose small face scrunched up against the rose.

"Can you smell that, my darling?" she asked, smiling through her heartbreak.

He opened his eyes, revealing irises so grey they were almost black. Baby curls, as dark as night, stuck up in wispy tufts along his soft scalp. Contrary to her fears during the birth, the babe was tiny. He felt like he had been the size of full grown horse. But he was so tiny he fit perfectly in the palm of her hand. Outside, far below, the battle drew closer. Swords ringing out, voices crying out in pain as death blows met their targets.

Lyanna lay back against the pillows, still damp with her sweat. "Mama's here," she whispered. "Don't you be scared. Mama's here and now we'll never be parted."

They would die together, but she will go first. They will not get to him without going through her – even if it was utterly futile. She wrapped her arms around him, leaving the rose tucked inside his towel. She hoped he would smell that, rather than the damnable smoke still spilling through the window. Any minute now, Gregore Clegane would kick down her door, sword sharpened; blade hungering for the kill. She kissed the child again, sending more tears rolling over his head, just as the sound of heavy footsteps came crashing up the steps to her door. It would be quick, she thought to herself, holding the baby tighter and pulling the bed sheet over them both.

"I love you," she whispered in the infant's ear. "I love you so much it hurts."

It was true. Not even with Rhaegar had she known a love like this; so strong it chased away any fear of the death awaiting her. So pure, it made her greet that same death with a smile on her face and tears of joy in her eyes. Even as the door was kicked in, she kept her gaze fixed solely on the infant – he would be the last thing she saw, not the Mountain. The crash was so forceful it sent clouds of dust descending from the ceiling, the wood splintering violently. The baby squirmed in her arms, registering fear as he cried pitiably for the first time. But the death blow never came.

"Lyanna!"

She froze, still clutching her infant to her chest. For a long, drawn out moment, she thought she had died already. Except that Ser Arthur Dayne had already assured her that the man to whom the voice belonged was still alive.

"Ned?" she looked up, releasing the breath she did not notice she was holding, and met his stunned gaze across the room. "Ned! It's you!"

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><p>Ice dropped to the floor with a dull, metallic clatter, sending droplets of blood smattering across the stone. But Ned scarcely noticed as he took in the sight of his sister … and her baby. The room was hot, stinking of blood and the sweet, cloying winter roses mingling in nauseatingly. Smoke from the fires down below seeping into the room, too. But compared to the sight that greeted him, all that paled into insignificance. Slowly, he moved to her bedside and saw, for the first time, how weak and pale she looked. He wanted to throw his arms around her and hold her close, but now he was afraid it would break her like a dry twig.<p>

Her grey eyes followed him as he moved.

"Ned," she repeated his name, tremulously. "Ned, say something."

If only he could. But words failed him. The only words that did come to mind were Robert's, again. _'I don't see babes; I see dragon spawn.'_ There would be no prizes for guessing the identity of the infant's father. Cautiously, as though sudden movements may startle Lyanna, Ned reached out and cupped his hands around the baby.

"May I?"

She nodded her agreement and let the infant go. "It's a boy," she said.

Ned studied the infant carefully; noting that he had not been washed and was still caked in mess. However, there was a bowl of water still sat by the door.

"Did he rape you? Is that how you got with child?"

Beyond speech, Lyanna shook her head. It was a truth that Ned had suspected often, but never acknowledged. Whatever anger he was feeling about the trouble she had caused, and the lives it cost, now was not the time to rage at her. Not when she was clearly ill. Not when there was another infant's life at stake. Torn between his sister's filthy sheets and the baby's dirty swaddling, he decided the innocent needed to come first. He removed the towel and washed the baby in the only water available, using the old towel to cleanse him gently.

"What are you going to do?"

Her voice sounded from behind him, while he was still kneeling over the basin and dousing the now naked baby. The honest answer to her question was that he simply did not know. Baby was strong and healthy – he would live. He even looked quite happy while being gently ducked in and out of the water; looking up at Ned through big, dark Stark eyes.

"Ned, please. What are you going to do? He's my baby. You can't kill him!"

"Gods, Lyanna, what do you take me for?"

He shot her a sharp look over his shoulder, briefly taking his eye off the baby. But he was done, anyway. Once baby was wrapped in a clean towel that Ned found in a nearby closet, he turned his attention to Lyanna's state of undress and passed her a clean night gown. He turned away from her while she struggled into it, even that small act leaving her drained and breathless. Her skin was flushed, indicating early signs of an infection. He needed to get her out of that filthy bed. After lifting her bodily from out of the blood soaked sheets, he collapsed under her weight and flopped down on the edge. There, he cradled her as if she were the new born; holding her close with her head tucked under his chin. He could feel her whole body burning up now.

"I'm sorry," she said, tremulously. "I'm so, so sorry."

"It's all right," he whispered back, hollowly. "We will think of something. We will keep him safe."

She lifted her head from his shoulder, raising her tear stained face to his. The fear in her eyes made his heartbeat race painfully. He had never seen her look scared before; not his courageous, wilful Lyanna.

"Promise me, Ned," she said, between choking sobs. "Promise me."

From inside the basin, the baby squirmed and snuffled. Ned didn't need to think about anything anymore. "I promise," he replied, firmly.

**TBC**

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading. Reviews would be very welcome.<strong>


	2. An Honourable Man

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; it means a lot. Thank you.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Two: An Honourable Man<strong>

They buried the dead together. Eddard and Howland Reed laid to rest the last victims of Robert's Rebellion, working steadily under the blazing Dornish sun. The three Kingsguard and their three companions, all spread out in neatly dug pits; bodies buried with deadly secrets in tact. The last act of treachery to smother the Targaryen dynasty for good. Starting as the dawn broke; they did not finish until high noon. Ser Willam Dustin's horse stamped restively in the stables as its master was lowered into the earth as though demanding an explanation. Ned glanced over at it and sighed, thinking of the widow Ser Willam left behind.

"We'll take everything back to the next of kin," he said, once the last pit was filled. The ground now richly sown with their many dead. "It's the least we can do."

Exhausted, both men flopped down to the ground and wiped the sweat and dirt from their foreheads. There was a well nearby, which drew waters from subterranean rivers that flowed down from the mountains – cool and clear, even on hot days such as this. They would make good use of it for themselves later, having already plundered its contents for Lyanna's sake. Eddard had ladled the water straight into her mouth, even as she slipped into deep unconsciousness and then sat by her side, mopping her brow as it burned with fever.

Lord Reed had found them in each other's arms and Baby still wrapped in a soiled towel with a cold, stone basin for a cradle. Despite the Crannogman's own exhaustion, he had ridden out immediately and procured medicine for Lyanna and a wet nurse named Wylla for Baby. Ned looked up at the Tower of Joy, to the highest window where said wet nurse was at that moment tending to Baby's needs. He looked to the level below, where his sister still fought for her life, and vowed to tear it down brick by brick before they left.

"You shouldn't judge her."

Lord Reed's voice jolted Ned out of his private reverie. Turning from the tower to look at his friend, Ned saw the hint of a smile beneath his thick beard. Over the last eighteen months, they had forged a bond that would never be broken. They had fought side by side; celebrated their victories and mourned their terrible losses together. They even welcomed their first born children into the world together – a son for Ned and a daughter for Howland. Now, they fought a different kind of battle together: to save a woman they both loved as a sister.

"I want to hate her, but I can't help but love her," Ned replied, at length. Never one to discuss affairs of the heart, the range of conflicted emotions he felt for Lyanna now were perplexing him. "I want to cast her out and hold her close, at the same time. But she's my sister and, even now, I know I would do anything for her. Anything."

"We still do not have the full story," Howland pointed out. "We don't know what she's been told, or what Rhaegar Targaryen even said or did to get her here. Even if she came willingly, there was no way she could have prevented what happened. It's not that simple."

Nothing ever is, Ned had come to understand that as well as anyone. "I dare not tell the King she is alive. He'll be down here with an army at his back before sundown."

"But Robert is going to find out, Ned. And you will need a story to explain that baby. She and Rhaegar were here alone and the whole realm knows it. He is the only possible father."

Ned drew a deep, steadying breath. There was no denying the truth of the matter. To reveal the mother was to reveal the father – and that would spell certain death for Baby. It might even spell death for Lyanna, if Robert flies into one of his passionate rages upon being told the truth. He sighed heavily, equally cursing and blessing his sister once more. The simple truth was that Ned was at a loss for what to do next, whether or not Lyanna lived. There was only one thing he did know, that he could not have gotten through any of it without Howland.

"Thank you, Lord Reed," he said, injecting every ounce of gratitude he had into two words much to small.

"It's nothing, Lord Stark," replied Crannogman.

But to Ned, it was everything.

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><p>Violent waters, foaming blood flecked grey, washed over Lyanna's head. Currents converged, clashing dangerously as they dragged her downwards. Tendrils of long, dark hair fanned out in the charging water; her nightgown raised above her hips, revealing her lecherously for the fish and eels to feast their eyes upon her womanhood. She kicked out as hard as she could, breaking the surface barely long enough to suck in a lungful of air before being pulled down again. Every time her head bobbed above the surface, sounds of battle reached her ears: death blows hitting their target; men shouting and cursing; horses crashing through the river. The waters ripped the screams from her throat as they pulled her back into the depths with ease. She craned her neck, helplessly thrashing out as they sky overhead was smothered by the bloodied water.<p>

She could see the death blow, just beyond her reach. Her fingertips breaking the surface as the distorted stag antlers slew the dragon. Her cry of grief made an indecipherable gargle; reduced to bubbles of air popping unheard at the surface. She watched his body fall dead into the depths. Unable to look, she turned her face away and twisted her body round so she was facing the sky. All she could see was the rubies dropping, floating silently downwards to the riverbed. She gracefully caught one in her outstretched hand as he whispered her name on his dying breath. Her long, tapering fingers closed around the fallen gem as the tide snatched her away with a speed that made her heartbeat race and blood rush to her head.

Drowning now, she clasped at something in the water that looked like a fallen branch. Clinging on for dear life, the branch moved upwards, pulling her free of the surging river. Breathless and panting, she let the branch pull her to the shore where she lay on her back and looked up at the sky while she recovered.

"What are you?" she asked, looking for life saving branch.

It was no branch, but the antlers of a stag she had grasped. A large and beautiful stag who turned his face towards her just before slipping into some darkened woods nearby. A pride of lions lay in wait, green eyes sharp and hungry, glittering as the stag approached. Lyanna watched, head tilted to one side. The stag could see the lions as well as she, but still he entered the pride.

"They'll eat you," she warned. "Come back. They'll eat you."

In the distance, a baby cried. Mournful wails that pierced her heart. Six large Direwolves, savage and fierce, watched her curiously from the opposite bank. Lyanna looked at them and they looked back at her. The albino caught her eye with his red ones; red as the ruby she clasped in her hand. The baby continued to cry; anxious, frantic wails that grew steadily in pitch.

"I'll come home, one day," she promised the wolves. "They say the North remembers, and I hope it remembers me."

She turned from the banks of the river, looking for the stag that had vanished into the woods. It was dark in there, too dark to see. Overhanging branches snagged at her wet hair and scratched at her skin. She couldn't see where she was putting her feet and tree roots protruded from the moist earth. One of them tripped her, bringing her crashing to the ground with a sharp yelp of pain.

Disorientated, she struggled back to her feet, gasping for air as though she'd been strangled. A sudden, bright light blinded her and rough hands pulled her back down again.

"No!" she tried to say. But her voice was cracked; her throat parched.

"Drink this, my lady," said a familiar voice.

"Lie down, Lyanna. You're still too weak," another joined in.

Something cool and solid was pushed into her hands, compelling her to open her eyes. She found herself back in the land of the living, in a sun filled room with Ned and Howland Reed watched her, wide eyed with worry. Half her mind still in her fever dreams, she blinked rapidly, trying to get her bearings back. Ned leaned forwards and helped her lift the cup to her lips. At first, she tried to resist. But as soon as the cool liquid hit her dry mouth, she gulped down the contents in their entirety.

"Thank you," she said, her voice finally working again.

Her whole body still ached and her head felt light and airy. Only when Ned held her hand did she feel anchored to this side of consciousness.

"Where is my baby?"

"Don't worry; he's safe."

"No, Ned. I need to see him. Where is he?"

She struggled to sit up again, but Ned merely eased her back down as if she were just a doll. Her blue-grey eyes widened with worry, fearing that some fresh tragedy was being kept from her. But Howland had slipped out of the room, returning moments later with the babe wriggling in his arms. Lyanna held out her own, eager to be reunited with him. Ned told her about the wet nurse, bringing a sigh of relief. But all the while, she could not take her eyes from the child. A tiny, wriggling, nameless scrap of humanity that she would gladly give her life for.

She nuzzled him; smothered him in kisses. The last time she had held him, he was still soiled and caked in his own afterbirth. Now, he was scrubbed, pink and perfect. He grabbed a fistful of stray hair and curled it around one tiny wrist; looking at in wonder for a moment, before attempting to eat it. Taking the hint, she lifted the bed sheet right up to her chin and gave him her. Wet nurse be damned, she thought, she would feed her own pup herself.

In the meantime Howland had left, leaving her alone with Ned.

"I did hear about father and brother," she said. "He didn't want me to know. But I heard the guards talking about it."

Ned did not reply immediately. He dropped his gaze and studied his hands carefully, where they were folded on top of her sheets.

"You have to believe me, Ned. I couldn't stop thinking of how they died-"

"How they were murdered," he corrected her, sharply returning her gaze again. "All they wanted was for you to come home safe."

The undercurrent of bitterness in his voice was impossible to miss. It brought that all-too familiar sense of shame bubbling up inside her again, rising to the top of her mind. She knew what she had done. But by the time she found out, it was all too late to stop it. Now Ned looked older, too. Like the war had taken something from him – his youth. For all his twenty-one years, he looked drawn and haggard.

"It was Aerys who murdered them, Ned. Not my Rhaegar."

"He wasn't just your Rhaegar though, was he? He was Elia's Rhaegar too, or had you forgotten that?"

Lyanna felt the shame burning in her. "Of course not!" she retorted, voice rising. "Her ghost, and those of her babies, will haunt me until the day I die."

The baby finished suckling beneath the sheets. Carefully, she covered herself again and lifted him back above the sheets. Once winded, and the reflux wiped with the corner of the bed sheet, he settled down for a nap across his mother's chest. A content that, only moments ago, she thought she would never know again suddenly settled over her as the baby's breathing deepened in sleep. Ned watched, as though transfixed.

"I've got one of those waiting back home for me, too," he said, smiling.

Lyanna beamed. "Congratulations, brother. A boy or a girl?"

"A boy," he replied. "An heir, already. We'll name him together."

"You married Catelyn Tully, didn't you?"

He nodded.

"You always do the right thing," she sighed.

They lapsed into a silence slightly more companionable than the last. There was no real anger between them. Only lingering hurt from perceived betrayals. Now, they faced the dilemma of what to do next.

"Two of the Targaryen children survived," said Ned. "Viserys and a newborn girl. Both spirited away to the Free Cities, if I know it true. Maybe you could join them?"

Lyanna drew a deep breath. Relieved that at least some of them managed to get away, she knew they would spend their whole lives running and fearing assassins round every corner. It was no true life.

"What would Robert do?" she asked. "If he ever found out the truth, I mean. He would hunt us both."

"He ripped this Kingdom apart for you," replied Ned. There was no recrimination there; only a plain statement of fact. "If he finds out about the baby; about you coming here willingly... I don't even want to imagine it, Lyanna."

"Exactly," she said. "And you're right about me, Ned. I was selfish and people died for it. How many more will die if the truth comes out? All I want is for my son to grow up in peace and safety. What about Viserys and his baby sister? Is Robert chasing them?"

Ned laughed mirthlessly. "Robert is hunting them down already, right enough."

"I can stop him," she pointed out. "I can plead with him on my knees and beg him not to. He'll listen to me, Ned."

A frown darkened his features. "You will not!" he retorted, angrily. "I will not set foot in that court again; I will not speak to that man again-"

"Hang on a minute," she cut in, almost dropping the baby in shock. "You're like brothers, Ned. What happened?"

Lyanna listened while Ned recounted the furious argument they had had about the escaped Targaryens. Once more, her brother had stuck fast to his principles. As always, her admiration for him towered. But, she also needed him to mend his fences with the new King.

"While I was sick, I dreamed about a stag walking into a pride of angry lions," she said, raising one hand to prevent his interruption. She knew he had no patience for such things. "It was Robert, Ned. The Lions of Lannister were waiting to devour him. It was them, and it was him-"

"It was a fever dream," he interjected. "And even so, let him be devoured. It is no concern of ours. It is no concern of the North."

Lyanna heaved an exasperated sigh. "How can you say that after everything that's happened?"

She wanted to add; '_how can you say that about your brother in arms_?', but she was well enough acquainted with Ned's terrifying anger to know that now probably wasn't the right time.

"Without your steadying influence, the Lannisters will rise and rise," she pointed out. "They will exploit him for all he's worth."

"And what about Jon Arryn?" Ned cut in again. "He's the Hand of the King, not Tywin Lannister. But Cersei Lannister has her eye on the throne, for sure. Everyone thinks you're dead, so the Queen Consort job is up for grabs."

Cersei Lannister, a cold sphinx-eyed bitch who would sell her own grandmother for a castle in the Reach. With her on the throne alongside Robert, King's Landing would overrun with Lannisters. Men like Gregore Clegane terrorising the small folk for fun. It made Lyanna's stomach churn. It would give them far too much power to hunt Lyanna and her son. But there was only one way she could block them, and that was impossible with the baby on her hip.

"If I married him," she began, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.

"No!" Ned stated, firmly. "Leave them be, Lyanna. It is none of our concern."

"They'll make it our concern!" she cut in, growing shrill and waking the baby. "Those people have slaughtered and sacked their way across this whole realm, Ned. We cannot stand by and do nothing while they profit from their own atrocities."

Ned implored her to calm herself. But seeing how restive her son became was what convinced her to step back from the squabble. She held him tightly, kissing the top of his fuzzy head.

"I can't give him up," she said, after a lengthy pause. "But I know I will have to."

The breath caught in Ned's throat. "What?"

Her mind, however, was made up. "All this damage I helped to create, Ned. I must put right what I can. Baby will never be safe with me. People will know who the father is and he will be hunted like a rat and drowned in a barrel. I love him more than anything and I love him enough to let him go, to live his life in peace, where no one will know who his parents really are."

"Lyanna, you cannot mean that?"

It hurt. It hurt like knife, cutting through the soft, tenderest part of her heart. But if Baby stayed with her, the truth would come out. She would not let her son pay for her mistake. For Rhaegar's sake, his heir had to live. For her sake, and for the baby's.

"I married him, Ned," she said. "This boy should have been a Prince."

She watched as Ned stiffened; his body absorbing the impact of her words. The expression in his eyes hardened, the light temporarily snuffing out to be replaced by the dull glimmer of fear. He got to his feet and started pacing like a caged wolf, running his hands through his long, brown hair in agitation. Lyanna tracked his progress, wishing he would just say something. Even if he was furious. She could hear his ragged breaths; as though even his lungs were tortured. After what seemed an age, he stopped and looked her dead in the eye.

"He is a bastard," he said. Lyanna was about to reach for the proof of her union, when Ned raised a hand to still her. "I'd already guessed at that! What I mean is, he is my bastard. That's what Howland has already told Wylla, the wet nurse. Let me take him back to Winterfell and raise him alongside my son. You can come with us. You can be his favourite Aunt Lyanna; always there for him, always looking out for him; always ready to play games and run with him. Teach him his first sword moves!"

She wanted to jump at the chance. To seize it and throw her arms around Ned's neck and kiss him. But doubts preyed on her mind.

"After everything that's happened because of what I did, I cannot ask it of you-"

"If you give him away to strangers, he will still be paying the price for what you did. He will be deprived of the blood family who love him."

"And your wife? How will she react to your bastard son being raised with her true born son?"

Ned sat back down in the seat he recently vacated. "She will forgive me. She's a good woman."

"Do you trust her with the truth?" she asked. She did not know Catelyn Tully and could not attest to her character at all. As such, suspicions swelled inside her. But Ned shook his head.

"It's not that I don't trust her," he stated. "But if the truth did come out, she would have no part in the treason. It would only be us and the baby to take the consequences."

"Fair enough," she concurred. She had to admit that anything was better than giving her baby up. "But I still have work to do, Ned. You understand that, don't you?"

She was referring to the broken realm of Westeros. The people had suffered; blood oozed from every corner on every street. Robert still howled for revenge against the dynasty he had put to the sword. The Lannisters still prowled round the edges of their new found peace, waiting for the chance to strike.

"As to that," said Ned. "Come home with us to Winterfell, and we can talk about it there."

Home. Winterfell. The lure was too strong to resist. Gladly, she agreed amidst a gurgle of approval from the infant stirring in her arms. She glanced down at him, laughed at the face he was making.

"Name me an honourable man?" she said.

"Jon Arryn," replied Ned, shrugging.

Lyanna smiled back at her brother. "Jon. It's a lovely name."

Realisation dawned in his face and he beamed brightly, leaning forwards and kissing her forehead. "Now bring Jon home, so we can plan his future together."

**TBC**

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><p><strong>Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely.<strong>


	3. The Return

**Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, alerted and favourited this story. It means a lot.**

**Apologies, but this chapter is a loooong one. It covers a good few months.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Three: The Return<strong>

Only once Ned had fulfilled his promise of destroying the Tower of Joy did they finally set sail from Dorne. Occupying a single cabin on a merchant vessel, they skirted the coast of Westeros, bound for King's Landing. A slow and gentle journey, during which the softly swaying ocean rocked Jon to sleep as Lyanna endlessly rubbed his back. He awoke only when he needed feeding or changing. What possessions she still owned were packed into a strong box: one evening gown, her wedding cloak and certificate; Rhaegar's harp, his lost ruby and her favourite book; a blue rose her late husband gave her, pressed between the pages.

She also had a purse containing the meagre remains of her funds. A handful of silver and a gold dragon. She used some of the silver to buy ink and parchment from the ship's Captain. While Ned and Howland were above deck, she brushed the ink onto Jon's hands and feet to make prints, to remind her always of how tiny he was. Wylla was still with them, and would be until after they returned from King's Landing, so helped wash and feed him when Lyanna was simply too tired. If the wet nurse suspected something amiss with this domestic set up, she kept it to herself. Howland had paid well for her silence.

"The Captain tells me that Storms End is still under siege," said Howland Reed. "What is Mace Tyrell playing at? Surely he can see the war is done now?"

They were dining on fried fish, freshly caught that morning, with herb sauce and a crisp, white wine from southern Dorne. Lyanna dreaded to think what the poor souls trapped behind the blockades were having for their supper.

"Ned, do you know Stannis well?" asked Lyanna, looking to her brother. All she wanted was peace, regardless of who established it. It was too late for the Targaryens, and she could only inwardly concur with Howland, that Mace Tyrell should call off the dogs of war.

Ned shrugged. "Not really; I don't think anyone really knows Stannis. But well enough to know that the Tyrells will bend the knee or die where they stand," he brusquely explained. "He'd face down the armies of the seven hells, if he had to."

Lyanna occupied herself with another forkful of fish, but her brow still knotted into a frown as she attempted to form an opinion of the mystery Baratheon brother. She always imagined him to be a smaller version of Robert: loud but charming, brash but wickedly funny, and utterly unable to resist the lure of a bonny maiden. It was that which had made her worry about a life spent with Robert. The thought of sitting at home with the children while he was out wenching in every tavern around Dragonstone. He already had one illegitimate child: a girl back at the Erie. No doubt, he had richly populated the provinces with several more during the months of fighting.

Ned put down his fork and looked across the small cabin table at his sister. He seemed to second guess the thoughts in her head. "You do not have to see him if you've no wish to."

"I have to," she replied, flatly. To emphasise the point and fortify herself at the same time, she knocked back a good mouthful of the wine. After draining the glass, she placed it on the floor by her feet. "Someone must talk sense into him, and the sooner its done the better. Then I can look forward to going home. At least for a while."

Meanwhile, the distant lights of King's Landing twinkled on the horizon. It was too dark to see anything, but Lyanna knew they would be disembarking in the morning. Robert had not been forewarned of their arrival for her sake. A small mercy she clung to. But that night she slept. Wylla was taking care of Jon's night feeds, so Lyanna slept deeply. She was awoken in the morning only when the ship had dropped anchor in Blackwater Bay, at a port only a short walk away from the Red Keep. She put on her only remaining decent gown and prepared to face her future.

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><p>Foreboding and residual anger fought an equal battle for dominance in Ned's heart as he approached the Throne Room. But for the Kingsguard at the double doors, the outer chambers were strangely devoid of life. A cold draught swept through them, chilling him to the bone as he drew to a halt. Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Barristan Selmy were guarding the doors, both fixing him with a stony-eyed look as he approached. Both men had served the Mad King; both had fought against Robert and Ned. The last thing he expected was a welcoming garland from either of them.<p>

"The King is in counsel with Lord Tywin Lannister," said Oakheart. "He does not wish to be disturbed."

_'...and certainly not by you,'_ Ned imagined him adding. However, as if to emphasise the man's point, angry voices drifted through the closed doors. King Robert's was chief among them, but Ned could not pick up on the subject being fought over this time.

"I assure you, he will want to hear this," Ned insisted, wearily. He still thought Lyanna was half-mad to want to do this now. "It concerns my sister."

"In that case..." the rest of Ser Barristan's sentence was left hanging as he swung open the door to the throne room.

As the doors opened, the room's inhabitants fell silent. All eyes turned to Ned; green Lannister eyes. Tywin was in there, with his daughter Cersei and eldest son, Jaime. All surrounded the new King, who glared furiously at Ned as he strode into the room. Clearly, he had interrupted something and was as welcome there as a drunken jester in a sept. There was no welcoming slap on the back from Robert, either. The King merely snatched at a goblet and raised it to his lips, continuing to glower at Ned from over the rim as he drank deeply. The iron throne towered above him, prickly and empty in the slanting rays of sunshine.

"If you've only come back here to lecture me on how to run my Kingdom, turn around now and don't come back," he spat at Ned, rising slowly to his feet like a giant taking shape. Just behind him, Cersei's eyes narrowed, a supercilious smile spreading across her face as Robert continued: "Run back to your bolt hole in the North, craven-"

"Why isn't he under arrest?" asked Cersei, stepping into a pool of light at Robert's side. "You heard what he said when last he was here. He would have the dragon spawn at liberty to rebuild their army in the Free Cities."

Ned's gaze only briefly flickered over her, taking in her tall and slender form – she wasn't even there when he and Robert fought each other. But he did not fear her, nor her father. For all their talk of dragon spawn, they had been late joining the rebellion on Robert's side. Ned and his northern host had been among the first to answer the battle call. Defiantly, he drew himself to full height and turned his full attention on to Robert.

"Answer Lady Cersei's question, Robert," he challenged, looking the King in the eye. "Why am I not under arrest?"

Slowly, he unbuckled his sword belt and let Ice fall to the floor. The clangour of it hitting the flagstones rang through the cavernous chamber. He then made a point of extending both arms, demonstrating his vulnerability. King Robert simmered angrily, colour rising in his unshaven face. Ned could see his knuckles turning white where he strangled the wine goblet.

"Watch yourself, Stark; I am your King!" he pointed out, voice low and mutinous. He gestured to Ned accusingly with his goblet hand. "After everything we were to each other, the last thing I want is your grim northern head adorning the walls of the Keep. So just you watch what you say now."

"Aye, you're my King," Ned concurred. "I should know; I put you there."

His gaze left Robert to drift over the assembled Lannisters, silently accusing. By now, the five Kingsguard had their hands over the hilts of their swords. Tywin Lannister, meanwhile, sat back and watched the exchange with a casual interest. It was a great misfortune that Jon Arryn was nowhere to be seen. He would smash their heads together until they saw reason.

"My King, surely you are not going to tolerate this from a subordinate?" Cersei was once more fixing herself to Robert's side.

Robert, for his part, seemed to ignore her. Whenever she got too close to him, he stepped away as though she burned him. Given her obvious beauty, it struck Ned as most strange.

"Just state your business and leave," he commanded Ned. "Before I do something I know I will later regret."

For a long moment, Ned continued looking at Robert. Looking for any trace of the Robert he knew, the best brother he never had. He was still in there somewhere, but Ned couldn't see him any more. It made him as sad as it made him angry.

"Your Grace, I came here to tell you about my visit to Dorne and what I found there," explained Ned, gesturing towards the doors. Emotion rose in him, now. He couldn't explain why, but the sadness of his argument with Robert was overwhelming him as he gestured for Lyanna to enter. "This is a matter close to both our hearts, Your Grace."

She was a vision of frail beauty as she paused in the doorway, framed by the cold stone arch and with the sun at her back. She wore a gown of silver and lilac that hugged her slender body. Wylla had plaited her long, raven dark hair and laced it with a jewelled net. Now those jewels glittered as Lyanna turned her face to Robert's.

"Your Grace," she said, tremulously. Simultaneously, she dropped to her knees in a deep curtsey.

The resonant clatter of a goblet being dropped to the floor drew Ned's attention back to Robert. Transfixed, the King now swayed dangerously on the spot as his eyes drank in the vision of the girl kneeling before him. Cersei, on the other hand, looked as though she was about to start spitting fire. Already, she was a distant memory in the King's mind as he stumbled forwards, hands outstretched towards their new comer.

"Lyanna!" he gasped. "Is it you? Is it really you?"

Robert closed the gap between himself and Lyanna with just a few long strides and raised her up again. He cupped her face with his hands, looking deeply into her dark grey eyes. The transformation from raging King to tender suitor knocked even Ned for six. Robert was so gentle, it seemed as if he was afraid of breaking her, of shattering the illusion of her being there in front of him. All she could do was nod her head.

"It is me, Your Grace," she assured him, after a long pause.

Ned watched the exchange with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. But already he could see Lyanna shrinking back from Robert as he quickly became emboldened. Her hands were curled into fists as he took a hold of her wrists, her eyes widened in alarm as his face drew closer to hers. For one worrying moment, Ned feared he would try to kiss her.

"Please, stop fighting," she stammered up at the King. "I heard your voices raised outside and I can't bear it."

The King cast a desperate look over his shoulder, towards Ned and the Lannisters now regrouping together in a huddle of building frustration. It was as though all they could see the crown slipping from Cersei's slender fingers.

"Leave us," he commanded. "All of you. Leave us now."

Only Ned remained behind, refusing to leave his sister alone with him. But Robert did not seem to mind him remaining behind.

"Your Grace, my sister is tired and frail after her ordeal," he put in, delicately. "Please be gentle with her."

Robert let go instantly. "Gods, what was I thinking," he admonished himself as the Lannisters trailed from the throne room, the door slamming behind Jaime's back. "You must both sit down. Both of you."

Ned breathed a silent sigh of relief at the Lannister's departure. He looked back towards the King, but he resolved himself to make Robert take the first step towards reconciliation. Which he did, moments later, with a rib-cracking bear hug that lasted over a minute. From the corner of his eye, he could see the relief on Lyanna's face as she sat in the seat recently vacated by Cersei Lannister. Already, he suspected she had a much bigger plan in mind and he had just made the first successful move for her.

"Ned," said Robert, suddenly holding him at arms length. "Don't let us ever fall out again."

"I won't if you won't," Ned replied, still reticent.

With that, the King opened his arms in an expansive gesture to the whole room. He clicked his fingers loudly, and barked a command to servants that Ned had not seen previously. "Serve my lady whatever she desires. Forgive me, Lyanna, but I must speak with your brother alone for a moment."

Ned found himself being led into an ante-chamber that adjoined the throne room. It was small and still packed with the Targaryen dragon banners. A few dragon skulls had been pushed up against the far wall, like unwanted furniture waiting to be burned. The old regime swept away like yesterday's stale rushes. When Robert closed the door, they were sealed in securely and Ned could see the tears standing in his eyes.

"How can I ever thank you for bringing her safely back to me, Ned? How can I even start?" he said, tripping over his words in a rush. "Lyanna and I, we will rule-"

"Robert! Robert!" Ned cut in, urgently. "She needs to recover. You can see how frail and tired she is. Please, give her time. I don't know what her long term intentions are."

The expression on the King's face froze, his boyish jubilation dipping infinitesimally. "Of course, Ned. I will arrange for her to escorted back to Winterfell, personally. Take all the time in the world and when she is ready, all she need do is send word and I will come for her. I will rip this kingdom apart for her, all over again if she so desires it-"

"Once was enough, Robert!" Ned interjected.

But Robert's expression continued to sink, turning gravely serious as he nudged aside a dragon banner and sat down on a strong box. He patted the space next to him, for Ned to also sit.

"I haven't just brought you in here to talk about Lady Lyanna, Ned," he said, sounding equally serious. "Yesterday, when you would still have been at sea, we received a raven from Starfall. About Ashara Dayne."

"Ashara?" Ned repeated. "I saw her only a week ago, when I returned Ser Arthur's ancestral sword."

"She's killed herself, Ned," said Robert. "I know you … had a bit of a thing for her, to term it politely."

The news knocked the breath from his lungs in a sharp gasp. "Dead? She cannot be!"

He tried to get back up again, but Robert pulled him down. "Don't go running off by yourself, you need your friends and sister with you. I'll get you a stiff drink in a moment, but I wanted us to be alone when I told you."

For that, Ned was truly grateful; not just for the thought, but for the return of the old Robert he knew so well. "I... She and I, we danced together at Harrenhal."

He could recall every minute detail of it. From the gown she wore to the look in her haunting lilac eyes. Memories that quickly brought tears to his own. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Robert, likewise, seemed lost in his own thoughts for a long time.

"For all the losses you and I have endured," he spoke softly now. "Let it be a lesson to us both, and never part on an angry word again."

Whatever animosity Ned had left for Robert, it faded away in the face of Ashara's death. Robert had not known her, he wasn't at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Given what else had transpired between Lyanna and Rhaegar, Ned was eternally grateful for that.

"Never," he promised the King. "Never again. I am truly grieved for Ashara."

"It doesn't end there, Ned," the King cut in. "They say she killed herself after delivering a still born baby, and that you were the baby's father. Gods, Ned, I was still so angry with you I didn't even defend your honour."

The news came as a double blow. Ned felt like he was being blamed for Ashara's suicide. "But-"

"I know!" Robert loudly retorted before Ned could get a word in. "I should have said to them, you're a man of honour and would never take up with a woman. Never would you have fathered a bastard and dishonoured the mother in such a low fashion."

"Well, actually, Robert," Ned said, once the King paused for breath.

Robert broke off again, turning to look at him in shock. "They told it true?"

"I have a bastard son, Robert," Ned confessed. "His name is Jon and he will be raised at Winterfell."

He could feel himself reddening with shame, no longer able to look Robert in the eye. He had never told such blatant lies in his life and he was sure Robert would see through them.

"And Ashara-"

"I don't want to talk about the mother," Ned cut in, forcefully. "I shamed Catelyn; I shamed myself-"

"Ned!" Robert sighed heavily. "Ned, look at me. We were at war. We didn't know if we would live to see another sunrise. Whatever indiscretions you had, the Gods and Catelyn will be sure to forgive. Now you must forgive yourself."

But Robert's gentle understanding only served to heighten the shame of Ned's lies. He buried his face in his hands, palms brushing against whiskery cheeks as he run his fingers through his own hair in agitation. It made him sick, but he knew that terrifying tyrannical Robert would be back in a flash if the truth were to come out.

"I will; I do," he replied, quietly. At this delicate stage of their reunion, it was clear that Robert was holding back from pressing for further information about the mother's identity. But it was also clear he suspected Ashara Dayne. He held his tongue.

"We all need a drink," Robert said. "A strong one."

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><p>Jon, as Ned's bastard son, was brought from the Inn where he and Wylla were lodged to Court. Lyanna watched from a window as they were escorted inside through a discreet back entrance, with her heart sinking. His uncomfortable life as someone's illegitimate by-blow had begun in earnest. But once night fell, she could go and feed him herself.<p>

Meanwhile, she remained in the rooms that Robert had provided for her. Alone with her conscience, she knelt in silent prayer to the old gods who she knew, in her heart of hearts, would not hear her. Would Rhaegar understand? Would Jon himself ever understand? Did she herself even understand? Questions crowded into her mind, stifling the half-formed prayers that meant nothing to her, anyway. All she knew was that the best way to avenge Rhaegar was to have his son rule the Seven Kingdoms, and there was only one person who could bring that to pass: her.

"Jon will be King," she murmured. "He will be the King his father was destined to be."

But she did not know how. Her mind was blank and she fell back on her heels in despair. Giving up on her meditations, she crossed the room again and looked out over the bay. A warm breeze swept in off the shivering seas and she could hear the voices of children playing far below. The City was sacked, not so long ago, but already reality chugged onwards as life returned to normal. Her private thoughts interrupted by a knock at her door.

"Come in," she called out, turning from the window.

Robert appeared sheepishly from behind a fissure in the doorway. "It's me," he pointed out. He jerked his head towards the corridor outside and added: "I've brought the guards and your brother, so there's nothing improper. I promise."

Lyanna raised a smile. "I trust you," she lied.

The King entered the room properly and closed the door quietly behind him. The muffled voices of the guards outside could just be heard. But inside the room, Lyanna and Robert looked at each other for a long time.

"So, you've got a promotion since last we met," she pointed out, glancing around her spacious chambers.

Robert laughed. "You could say that."

Lyanna didn't laugh. She looked up into his face, noticing that he'd been wet shaved since her abrupt presentation earlier in the day.

"Your Grace-"

"Don't call me that!" he cut in, exasperated. "Not you, of all people."

Her dark brow knitted into a frown. For all the enthusiasm he showed for his new station, they may as well have crowned a Barbary ape. She led him over to the window, where they could sit down and talk properly.

"Robert," she reverted to more informal address. "Say it is over now?"

"As soon as the Tyrell's stand down-"

"I don't mean Mace Tyrell, Robert. I mean the children," she corrected him. "Please, let them go now."

His expression briefly clouded with disgust, passing quickly as she remained earnest.

"You mean the Targaryens? After everything Rhaegar did to you?"

Her stomach churned. "No more bloodshed, Robert. Please. Just let them go. Ned was right. If you slay them, you will be tainted. Forever."

His hand found hers, covering it completely and squeezing for reassurance. "It is over."

"Promise me?"

"I promise," he replied, without hesitation. "I give you my word."

Lyanna drew a deep breath, hoping he would keep his word. She would see to it personally that he did. "Thank you."

"There will be a carriage in the morning to take you home," Robert explained, turning towards the window. He paused there, expectantly.

"Thank you," she replied, hoping that would be enough. When it proved not to be the case, she added: "You're sending Ned to lift the siege at Storm's End, aren't you?" Hoping a change of subject would divert his attentions away from her.

"A guard and armed host will be riding to Winterfell with you," he said. "You don't need to wait here for him."

Lyanna smiled again. "That's not what I meant. I meant, you're sending him into battle again, aren't you?"

"It's not like going into battle, Lyanna. He will be safe and home soon."

"I hope so," she replied. "I will be passing Riverrun, on my way North. Assure Ned I will stop for Catelyn and the baby on my way. There's no point raising two royal hosts for us both."

Robert appeared to find the suggestion distasteful. "Counting coppers!" he guffawed. "Why should you have to share?"

"Because it saves money, resources and time, Robert. The war must have cost a fortune."

He paused again, brow wrinkling as he navigated some delicate thought pattern. It was obviously troubling him, whatever it was.

"But..." he said. "Aren't you bringing Ned's, er, other son with you?"

"Oh," she replied, realising the small fact that had slipped her mind. She closed her eyes and groaned. "Maybe I should just tell her he's an orphan boy I've adopted and Ned can break it to her gently as soon as he returns from Storm's End. I don't know. But either way, Jon and I will be there by the time she arrives. There's no avoiding it."

Robert rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment. "Good luck with that," he stated, getting to his feet.

"I think I'll be needing it."

With that, he got to his feet and moved towards the door. There, he paused and look back at her.

"Take care," he said, softly. "Whatever you decide, I'll be waiting to hear from you."

"What of Cersei Lannister?"

Robert shrugged. "What of her?"

"I thought you could tell me."

He laughed mirthlessly. "There really is nothing to tell."

Silence settled between them, but Robert continued to hover in the doorway. She could hear the guards somewhere in the distant outer-chamber.

"Whatever happens, Robert," she said. "Don't get into bed with the Lannisters. Not literally and most of all, not metaphorically."

"I need them," he admitted. "I wouldn't be here without them. But I'll never rely on them, not with the Starks of Winterfell at my side."

After one final, lingering look he departed. Lyanna listened as his noisy gaggle of guards trailed after him, their footsteps receding quickly down the echoing corridor.

A night gown and silk slippers had been left out for her by the maids. As soon as she was alone, she slipped into them and opened the long, bay windows in her chambers to tempt in the cool breeze as she tried to sleep. But every time she closed her eyes, she thought of Rhaegar again. Of the man who killed him and the course of action she knew she must take to safeguard the future of her son.

When she did sleep, the only thing that slipped into her dreams was Winterfell. The cold granite walls, off set by the ruby blaze of the heart tree and the glacial pool of the godswood. Towers and turrets set against the louring skies; snowflakes swirling on the northern winds. Blue winter roses, petals frosted and shining like crushed diamanté near the glass houses, growing in patches. She could almost touch them. The six Direwolves were back, lying in wait and watching her through eyes of amber, emerald and red. _'What took you so long?,'_ they seemed to be saying to her. This close up, she could see that they were only babies.

"I'll be home soon," she promised them.

When she did finally arrive home, she was almost disappointed to find her home devoid of Direwolves.

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><p>Catelyn had not expected to be so emotional as she left her home. The reality was that her whole life had been building up to the moment she stepped through those doors for the last time. It signified far more than she could put into words. It was her destiny and the promise of its fruition had occupied her since she was old enough to remember. She would be the first Lady of Winterfell, married to the Warden of the North. Already, she had fulfilled her duties to her people – as well as her husband – by providing a healthy male heir. All the way north, she bounced him on her knee and pointed out all the small sights passing their carriage window. A carriage provided by King Robert himself, no less.<p>

With the pressure of providing that all-important heir gone from her shoulders, she was free to plan and dream about the future she was travelling into. It was expected that she would run the household, care for the small folk and populate the nursery. While Ned performed his onerous duties, the castle of Winterfell would be her domain and her plans got bigger every time she thought about it. So, as the castle approached, she craned her neck out of the window and watched it grow bigger on the horizon as the bracing northern winds swept through her long, auburn hair.

The only thing that could possibly disrupt her plans was if there was someone else already in place as Lady of Winterfell. Such as the one who greeted her as she disembarked from the carriage with the baby on her hip.

"Hello," said the girl with the Stark colouring. "Welcome to Winterfell. I'm Lyanna. You know? Ned's sister. I wanted to collect you myself as I passed Riverrun a few weeks ago. But the King assured me arrangements had already been made."

She wasn't alone, either. The entire household was lined up outside, all looking at her expectantly with fixed smiles on their faces. After Lyanna, came the nursery team, ready to prise her baby away from her. Catelyn held him all the tighter and turned to weigh up her new sister in law, the one everyone thought was dead.

"That was very kind of you, My Lady," Catelyn replied. She was very beautiful, Catelyn could see why Robert raised an army to get her back after Rhaegar abducted her. A subject she skirted around as best she could as they were led inside. "I hope you're feeling better now?"

"Oh, much," Lyanna replied, leading her into the Great Hall and almost tripping over the hems of her skirts in her eagerness. "I can show you around and introduce you to everyone, if you like?"

"Where is Lord Stark?" she cut over the other woman. "I was told he would be here."

Lyanna's expression froze for a minute. "He is assisting Stannis Baratheon at Storm's End, Lady Stark. They say he will be home soon. Look, why don't I introduce you to all the important staff and help you get settled?"

The girl was trying, she really was. But Catelyn was exhausted and the news about Lord Stark had thrown her. Winterfell had proved overwhelming and she needed time and space to settle herself in. "I am sure I will be fine, er, Lady Stark. Don't go to any trouble on my account, but thank you all the same."

While the two Lady Starks weighed each other up, a baby began to cry from within one of the ante-chambers. The newest Lady Stark stiffened, clutching her own silent baby to her hip. "Forgive me, I wasn't aware of any other infants here besides my son."

"Oh, that's our other brother's bastard son," Lyanna explained, quietly. "I am in charge of looking after him until Ned returns."

"And when Lord Stark returns, you will be returning to King's Landing presumably?" asked Catelyn.

Lyanna's demeanour changed, stiffening as she stood at full height. "That is for my brother to decide," she returned, before stalking off towards the crying baby. "Good day to you, Lady Stark."

* * *

><p>When Ned did return, Lyanna knew for sure she was intruding on another family's private life. She heard the new Lady Stark crying over Jon during the night. She heard Ned praying for forgiveness. All the while, she nursed the baby when she was alone and no one would ever know. It was her home, but it felt like there was someone else's family now occupying it. In a way, she was right. The only thing that kept her there was Jon. The thought of leaving him wrenched her heart in two.<p>

He had begun to crawl, and was even trying to stand. He could look at her and point in recognition, but she knew she would never hear him call her 'Mama'. Once she had sent the raven to King's Landing, she picked Jon up and bounced him on her hip as they slowly paced around the room with tears leaking from her eyes.

"You're my baby," she began, kissing the top of his head. "There is nothing and no one I love more in this world than you."

A fistful of soggy biscuit made its way into his mouth, before he turned to look up at her with his big, dark eyes.

"Doh!" he cried out. "Doh!"

Despite her tears, she tried to laugh.

"Dog," she corrected him. "Wolf."

He was heavy now, so she soon sought a seat where they could sit together.

"I will come back for you, one day," she promised, swiping at her tears with her free hand. "But you must be good, and be brave and don't let that frosty woman wear you down. And all the time I am away from you, my heart will ache for you. You will be the first thing I think of in the morning, and the last thing on my mind at night." Their foreheads gently bumped together, and Lyanna drew a deep breath, breathing in his scent with sad relish. "Wait for me, little pup. I won't let you down."

When Robert came for her, he came in person – just as he promised. Ned came to her chambers on the evening prior to her departure to try and talk sense into her.

"You don't have to," he said. "Catelyn will get used to you and you'll soon find a role here that doesn't cross hers."

"I have a role, Ned," she informed him. "I have a duty to protect my son, in honour of his father."

Before he left her chambers, she called out to him before he could leave. "Look after him, Ned. I beg you. Look after Jon."

He was sombre as he affirmed the promise he made back in the Tower of Joy, all those months ago.

"I promise," he said, and bowed out of the room.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for sticking with this long chapter! The time jump is coming, however and Queen Lyanna will be back in the next chapter, thirteen years hence.<strong>

**Apologies also to all those who wanted Lyanna to stay in Winterfell. But the plan was always to give her power and see how that alters Jon's destiny. I promise it will be worth it.**

**If you have a minute, reviews would be lovely.**


	4. Where the Winter Roses Grow

**Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and alerted this story. It means a lot, thank you.**

**As you'll also notice, I'm giving Robert the benefit of the doubt and working on the premise that Lyanna really was his one, true love. **

**Also, I've stuck with the book name for Lysa and Jon Arryn's son, Robert (Robin in the show). The distinction between Robert Arryn and Robert Baratheon should be clear.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Four: Where the Winter Roses Grow<strong>

Silent and serene, Lord Arryn reposed in death. Not a trace remained of his final agonies now that the fever had burned out, consuming his life as it passed. Sunlight poured through the stained glass windows of the Sept of Baelor, where the great Lord's body lay in state, awaiting burial. Crystals chimed in a soft breeze blowing through the open doors. Even after all these years, Queen Lyanna found southron funerals peculiar. So full of light and sound, compared to her own dark and ominous gods. But she made no mention of it as her hand found King Robert's and folded over it protectively. She turned her face towards him, glancing up at him through a sheer black, muslin veil. Never, in all their twelve years of marriage, had she seen him look so lost and alone.

"Darling, I am so sorry," she had said it before, but felt compelled to say it again. "He was like a father to you and I know my brother felt the same."

Robert drew a shaky breath. "Ned," he whispered. "Gods, Lyanna, I haven't even sent a raven to Winterfell yet."

"I took care of it," she assured him, squeezing his hand. "It was sent yesterday afternoon."

"Where would I be without you?" he asked, rhetorically.

Robert raised a pained smile as he extricated his hand from Lyanna's, then placed his broad arm around her narrow shoulders. He hugged her tight for a moment, before leading the way out of the Sept, treading lightly over the seven pointed star. The Kingsguard followed at a discreet distance as they emerged into the open day once more.

"We should pay our respects to Lady Arryn," Robert suggested.

"Of course, we must do so immediately," she concurred readily.

Their carriage was waiting within the walls of the Sept itself, sparing them public scrutiny as they passed to and from their viewing of the body. One of Robert's Grooms held the door open for them, while he gave a hand to Lyanna as she climbed in first. Once Robert was also seated, and the curtain closed over the window, he put his arm back around her shoulders. With the veil still drawn over her face, she resembled a tall, slender shadow. Robert delicately drew it aside, revealing her face to the weak light sneaking in through the gaps in the velvet drapes.

"That's better."

Lyanna smiled at the compliment. "Poor Lysa. She's been acting strangely for weeks now, don't you think? This will hit her all the harder."

Robert's right brow lifted seemingly of its own volition, the expression on his face half-amused. Lyanna had to resist the temptation to land a playful punch on his arm.

"I'll re-phrase that. Don't you think Lysa has been acting more strangely than usual? I think she's afraid that we'll take little Robert from her."

"You know what I think on this matter, my love. I trust you in all things and you as good as run my Kingdom for me. But we disagree on this. I think it would do the boy good to be fostered with someone his equal. Ned would be ideal," Robert explained.

"Ned's different. He's an honourable man who would raise the boy properly. But we already foisted Theon Greyjoy on him and Cat after the Squid King's half-arsed fart of a rebellion," answered Lyanna. "I still feel a little bit guilty about that, actually."

"Exactly," Robert added. "Someone like Tywin Lannister could put steel in the boy's backbone."

"But I would not forcibly part a mother from her child, Robert," she explained. "Especially now, when their grief is at its heaviest. But I tell you one thing we do agree on: that boy cannot hold the east."

"But who can? We are lost without Jon Arryn."

Lyanna paused, letting the silence settle before dropping an echoing hint. "You know who I am going to say."

Robert sighed heavily. "No. No. No. No again."

In response, Lyanna let her face rest against her husband's broad chest. "I'm giving you the big eyes, Robert. Really, I am. Say no again and I'll be forced to flutter the lashes."

A loud chuckle rumbled in the chest beneath her cheek. If anything, she was glad to have lifted his pain. "I know you mean well, my Queen. But Stannis and I will never reconcile."

Lyanna turned serious again and sat up straight in the carriage seat. "He feels slighted, Robert. After everything he did during that awful siege, don't you think he is owed some reward? Please consider it."

"And what did Stannis do?" Robert asked, rolling his eyes. "It was your brother who lifted the siege. If it hadn't been for the infamous Onion Knight they would have starved to death even before Ned arrived."

"Robert, that is not fair. Not fair at all. Stannis held Storm's End for over a year before Ned came sailing in. Either way, Stannis is your brother. Your own flesh and blood. I couldn't bear to fall out with Ned or Benjen. It would break my heart."

"There's other people's brothers, and then there's Stannis," Robert retorted. "I think if you knew Stannis better, you would see things from my point of view."

Lyanna doubted that, but she could see he was not for turning today. "I apologise for bringing it up now, but we do also need to name a new Hand."

"Don't apologise, you're right. But I've already made up my mind. You need not trouble yourself."

"Who?" she asked, suspiciously. "Do I not get a say?"

Robert merely grinned as the carriage drew to a halt outside the Red Keep. No sooner had they stopped, the Grooms opened the doors and they stepped out into the late summer sun. Robert breathed in a deep lungful of the crisp air.

"Winter is coming," he announced, glancing all around him.

"And mine will be the fury, if you're planning on giving everything to the Lannisters," she joked, falling into step with him as they walked towards the Castle.

Even in the liveliest parts of the Castle, grief had cast its smothering pall. The people were subdued and silent, hugging the cold stone walls as they scurried past. Still, the Queen nodded to them all and offered muted pleasantries.

Over the years, Robert's love of good food and fine wine had caught him up. He had grown broad around the middle and the stairs up the Tower of the Hand were now proving his undoing. Lyanna had to slow her own pace, waiting for him to catch her up.

"This is getting embarrassing," he puffed, turning red in the face. "Gods, I am out of shape. And look at you, my Queen: as beautiful and slim as the day I first met you."

"Flatterer!" She beamed. "Now come, we must see Lady Arryn."

She took the remaining stairs three at a time, lifting the hems of her skirts above her ankles. Reaching the top long before the King, she knocked on the door of the Hand's chambers and took a backwards step in alarm as it swung open. Inside, papers and books were scattered over the floor. A table overturned and a vase smashed on the floor. The bouquet she and Robert had sent up the day before lay scattered among the spilled water; petals trodden on in haste.

"Lady Arryn?" she called out, nervously. "Lysa. It's me: Lyanna."

Silence thickened in reply.

"Robert!" Lyanna called to her husband, whose footsteps still thumped against the steps. "Robert, come quick and draw your sword."

She regretted not bringing her own. Despite his increased girth, Robert was still swift thanks to their regular hunting trips. He appeared at the door, breathless but with sword at the ready.

"Seven Hells!" he cursed at the sight that greeted him. "I don't think there's anyone else here, but get behind me just in case."

Lyanna did so as they searched the chambers together. In the bed chamber, linens had been torn from the bed so forcefully that the mattress had been pulled half off the sturdy wooden frame. Jon Arryn's favourite tapestry remained, but had been knocked skewiff as though someone had been pulling at it then given up trying to steal it. Stray stockings of various colours, none matching, lay abandoned on the floor. But otherwise, all of Lysa's belongings were gone, as were the boy's. Clothes, jewellery and ornaments alike. They both surveyed the scene in silence for a long time, each equally bamboozled.

* * *

><p>That evening, Lyanna dined alone in her privy chamber. Delicate slices of venison, freshly hunted for her by the King and his men. Served with fresh vegetables from her own gardens and washed down with a rich red wine. Still it could not rekindle her flagging appetite. She set down her knife and fork and turned to look out of the open doors that led into her private gardens. Dusk was settling outside. A burnished coppery orange filled the heavens as the sun dipped below Visenya's Hill, the Sept of Baelor forming a solid black mass against the skies.<p>

A soft breeze breathed through the chambers, ruffling the fine net curtains. They looked like ghosts as they swayed and swelled on the invisible current. Lyanna rose to her feet and went to stand on the balcony, letting the breeze into her loose hair and looked out over the Sept again, thinking of the stony-cold corpse it now housed.

Sometimes, when Jon Arryn was alive, he would whisper loudly in Robert's ear: "the realm needs an heir, Your Grace." She would then catch him looking at her, almost accusingly. The first time it happened, she had wept. Years came and went, but Lyanna remained barren. Her moon blood had not come since before she fell pregnant with her Jon; his birth had damaged her insides. It was as though he feared homesickness during his birth, and clawed out her womb during that agonising night to keep as a souvenir.

She had tried everything: lotions, potions, pills and therapies. Nothing worked and one "remedy" nearly killed her. After that, Robert had forbidden her to try anything else. Every time a cruel remark was made, he would cup her face with his hands, look her square in the eye and say: "all I want is you; all I need is you. This realm and everyone in it be damned!" He never once blamed her; never once pressured her to seek a cure – she had done that herself. After that one so called remedy had made her sick, Robert had been beside himself with worry. "I almost lost you once, Lyanna," he had pleaded, "I couldn't bear for it to happen again. Stop now, I beg you."

That gap in her heart where her son should be widened into a chasm, made all the worse by it being a secret only she and Ned knew. He came to her in her dreams; imaginings of what he must look like now, as a boy of just turned thirteen. She wrote to him often, receiving absurdly polite replies. She made sure money was set aside for when he became a man. Every name day, she sent him gifts. But it was no substitute for her being in his life and time was running out.

Her chamber door opened, jolting Lyanna out of her reverie.

"Your Grace."

Ysilla Royce was peering around the door; Lyanna beckoned her inside. Her House was sworn to House Arryn, all of whom Lysa Tully seemed to have abandoned in her haste to flee King's Landing.

"Did Lysa send you?" asked Lyanna, as she left he balcony. "We have heard nothing of her."

"No, Your Grace. What's happening with her is a mystery even to my father. The King sent me to get you ready for tomorrow's hunting trip."

"Hunting trip?" Lyanna sighed. "I do wish Robert would give me advance warning."

Lady Ysilla looked apologetic. "I think this is the advance warning. I'm afraid it's going to be big. He wants to bring everything from evening gowns to jewels."

"We're going hunting in evening gowns?"

From anyone else it would have sounded bizarre. But it was Robert and anything could happen; Lyanna had long since learned to go with it. The full force of her household was summoned to help with the huge task of getting packed up.

By the following afternoon, they were ready to go. Lyanna, dressed in full length velvets, pulled on her riding gloves as she swept down the steps of the Red Keep, where her Destrier horse was saddled and waiting. Robert was already mounted, surrounded by their vast retinues. All around the Keep, the Stark and Baratheon banners fluttered in the breeze. Carriages and pack mules were already forming up. Pausing mid-way down the steps, she took in the scene with growing suspicion.

"This is quite some hunting trip, and all without your crossbow!"

In his thick mane of jet black hair, a circlet of gold glittered in the sunshine, crowned with the Baratheon stag. He wore a smart doublet, emblazoned with both their sigils entwined in a frame of lover's knots. She had to stand on her tips toes to kiss him.

"I'm chasing the boar and wringing their necks with my bare hands," he replied, with a glint in his eye. "I need the exercise."

Once mounted on her own Destrier, they paused their conversation while the royal fanfare blasted out around them. As much as pomp and ceremony, it acted as a warning to the populace that the royal family were riding out. As soon as the heralds fell silent again, they nudged their horses into a slow walk towards the gates of the Keep. Lyanna glanced over her shoulder, taking in the vast train of people, carts and carriages all steadily gearing up to get moving. It was the biggest hunting party she had ever seen.

"Hey," said Robert, drawing her attention back to him. "I have something for you."

He reached into the inside pocket of his doublet and withdrew a perfect, single blue rose.

"Oh Robert, it's beautiful!" she sighed as she reached over and took it. "Thank you."

She brought it to her nose and breathed in its sweet, rich scent. It was cold to the touch, where it had been packed in ice during its journey from Winterfell. They had tried everything to get them to grow in her private gardens, but they needed the cold and the snow. The consignments of them that Ned sent down invariably wilted during the voyage.

"I need to put it in water," she said, sadly. "It will die before the day is done."

"Hmmm," Robert replied, thoughtfully. "That's why I thought we should go and get some more. You know where the winter roses grow, don't you?"

Her eyes snapped open, fixing him with a wide stare. "Get some more?"

"Well one won't be enough, will it," he said, grinning. "Hope you packed your petticoats; it's a long ride to Winterfell."

Her shrill squeal of joy burst out before she could stop it. She clapped a hand over her mouth before she could deafen anyone else, then burst out laughing. Before she could fall off her horse, she tugged on the reins to bring him to a standstill.

"Surely you jest?"

Robert let go of the reins and gestured to the vast retinue now ambling through the Red Keep. "Does all this look like a jest?"

Her gaze lingered over the procession, heart fit to burst. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she almost choked as she realised she had forgotten something.

"Go on without me," she said. "I'll catch you up."

"Where are you going?"

"There's something I need to give to Ned, but it's in my chambers," she hurriedly explained, turning the horse around. "This is why a little advance warning comes in useful!" But she wasn't really admonishing him. The surprise progress thrilled her.

"Oh, where's the fun in that?" he moaned.

She galloped the horse into the Keep itself, before dismounting at the foot of the stairs leading to her apartments. She raced up them, three at a time before almost kicking her own door down. In her privy chamber, she wrenched open the drawers of her dresser until she found the tiny black, lacquered box. Inside, Rhaegar's ruby was set in a fine gold clasp that hung on an equally delicate gold chain. She had it made after her wedding, with the sole intention of one day handing it on to Jon. That day was about to come. She kissed the box for luck before dashing back to her horse. Once more in the saddle, they trotted back outside. In the open, she broke into a gallop to catch up the retinue. As soon as she was back with Robert, she did not slow down. She dug her heels into the horses flanks, spurring him on faster and faster until she had overtaken them all. Realising what she was doing, Robert joined the race as they galloped free of the train. Caught up in the moment, she cried out in jubilation as their horses raced through the city. She hadn't felt so alive since she was a wild and wilful girl, chasing her destiny through the wilderness of the north.

* * *

><p>Slowly, Ned recovered from the death of Jon Arryn. Lyanna had broken the news gently in her letter, but nothing could numb the blow of the initial impact. He had spent hours secluded in the Godswood, lost in his own meditations and memories. Often, it was Cat who came to fetch him out at the end of the day as she grew so worried about him. But now the pair of them enjoyed a gentle stroll through the castle grounds. Arm in arm, they went; sticking close together and greeting their household warmly.<p>

The boys were training in the yard, oblivious to them passing by. But the girls were training their direwolves to sit and fetch. Ned laughed as Arya's Nymeria carried on doing whatever she wanted, while Sansa's Lady proved to be a model of obedience – to Arya's ill disguised irritation. "How do you get her to do it?" the little girl's shrill voice called out. Sansa merely proffered a sweet smile; lip firmly buttoned.

"Gods Ned, those dogs are growing fast," said Catelyn, worriedly. "They cannot be safe."

"They're not dogs, Cat," he corrected her. "They're direwolves."

"Whatever they are," Catelyn rejoined. "That beast of Rickon's is positively terrifying. One day, we're going to come downstairs to find no sign of Rickon anywhere and that wolf sitting there with a swollen belly and licking its paws."

Ned laughed. He tried not to; Cat was genuinely worried. But he laughed all the same. "They're of the North, my love, and so are we Starks. They understand each other."

With the exception of Arya, all of their children were auburn haired and blue eyed Tullys. But, as Ned kept saying, their Stark hearts pumped Stark blood. He glanced sidelong at his wife and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Catelyn, meanwhile, was rolling her eyes. "Despite the sigil of my house, I don't share a mystical bond with fish."

"Had you even tried to form one?" he challenged, stifling another laugh. "While we're on the subject of strange fish, have you heard any more from Lysa?"

The smile melted from Catelyn's face as they rounded a corner near the glass gardens. Ned directed their stroll towards them, to get her inside and out of the cold. They stepped inside and secured the door firmly behind them, sealing them in. Inside the glass garden, the air was warm as a summer's day and heavy with the scent of compost and wild fruits. Strawberries grew in there, along with other delicacies and vegetables. It was a small paradise in their bleak landscape.

"All I know of Lysa is that she fled the capital because she said the King and Queen were going to take Robert away from her by force," Catelyn explained.

"Lyanna would never, ever, force a mother to be parted from her child, Cat. She just wouldn't. Someone's been whipping Lysa up into a frenzy about this," Ned insisted. "Do you want to visit her? It might do her some good to see you again."

They went down to King's Landing for the wedding and stayed long enough to also attend Lyanna's nuptials and coronation. Their one year old son, Robb, had been left behind as the sole 'Stark in Winterfell' along with a council. By the time they returned, Sansa was quickening in Catelyn's womb. Catelyn and her sister had not seen each other since.

"I would like that, I must admit," she replied, at length. "And I don't suppose she could be tempted to come north."

"She can't hole herself up in the Erie forever," said Ned, looking out over the grounds. No sound passed through the glass walls. So everyone outside, the girls shouting commands to the wolves and the boys sparring in the yard, did so in mute. It was like they had been plunged under water. Even Maester Luwin, chains clanking silently round his neck as he hurried towards them waving his arms. His mouth flapping as he tried to call out to them.

"What's happening now?" asked Cat, frowning with worry.

Ned went to let him in, taking the letter Luwin pressed into his hands. "It's from Queen Lyanna again, My Lord."

While Luwin and Cat stood side by side, looking at him expectantly, Ned read the short missive. Once he had finished, he read it again to make sure he had understood it right.

"Seven hells!" he muttered. "Robert and Lyanna are coming to stay. They're already on the road and will be here soon. She says sorry for the short notice, but Robert fooled her into thinking they were just going hunting. She only just found out herself."

Catelyn stumbled backwards, Luwin catching her in his arms as she caught her breath. "Gods, Ned! What're we going to do? We've nothing in for them."

Ned had digested the news quickly and was already thinking ahead. But not much further than simply being reunited with his sister. "We can manage," he assured her. "We'll just need musicians, singers, cooks brought in for the extra workloads and to increase the orders sent out this morning. Lyanna probably just wants to come home for a few weeks, that's all."

But Catelyn was no longer listening. She was already rising to the challenge and reeling off a list of instructions to Maester Luwin, the colour rising in her face. Without even a backward glance in his direction, she lifted the hems of her skirts and hurried out into the grounds of the castle, gesticulating wildly as plans quickly formed in her head. Ned watched her go, full of admiration.

* * *

><p>For the last month, Jon had been living in a fool's paradise.<p>

For all that time, chaos reigned over Winterfell as plans for the impending royal visit swung swiftly into action. Rooms cleaned and aired, sigils and mottoes re-painted. Children forced, squirming and itching, into brand new smart clothes. Heels chafing against new boots. Everything spic and span for when the King and Queen arrived. All except for him, the Bastard. He was to be kept out of sight of the royals; stick to the back with the squires and grooms and go unseen. He had laughed as Robb and Theon were forced into the barber's chair to be groomed and trimmed into a version of courtly gentility like a pair of preening maids. Best of all, had been Arya forced into a silk dress with patent leather shoes to match. It was like watching a wildcat being forced to take a bath. Paired with the pomposity of Sansa swirling and twirling through every room in the castle mentioning, "our Aunt, the Queen", at every possible opportunity – it was all rather funny.

All the while, his bastard self had been left unmolested. His smug amusement reached its highest peak the day before the royal arrival as his brothers were being stuffed into new doublets and breeches. He leaned against a support column in the bath house and absorbed the angry looks they flashed him.

"But you look so pretty like that!" he goaded Robb.

Before Robb could thump him, however, their father had entered and fixed Jon with an angry look. "And what do you think you're doing?"

Jon stood up straight in front of his father, looking around as though he could have been addressing someone else.

"Yes I'm talking to you, Jon."

Lord Stark reached out one hand and gingerly picked at Jon's shirt. It was still soiled from his practise in the yard with Ser Rodrick. His hair was dirty, fringe flopping into his eyes and all ruffled up at the back.

"Are you even planning on having a bath before the Queen gets here?"

"B-But I'm not... You know... I'm not allowed!" He stammered, looking up at Ned plaintively. "But Lady Stark said-"

"You are the Queen's nephew, Jon," Lord Stark cut in, genuinely angry. "Get in that bath and don't come out until you are scrubbed red and raw. Your new clothes will be left on your bed and if you turn up for your formal presentation with so much as a hair out of place you will spend the next year scrubbing dishes in the kitchens. Do you hear me? The Queen has been unfailingly kind to you over the years and you will do her the courtesy of making an effort. Now cease and desist in poking fun at your brothers and get a move on!"

Chastened and sheepish, Jon's gaze dropped to the tips of his scuffed boots, hands knotted behind his back. "Forgive me father, I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't think," Eddard cut over him again, tone still scolding. "You're to come and see me before you go to bed, this evening. We need to talk."

With that, he turned and stalked away. Jon watched him leave as the others broke into a round of applause and jeered at him.

"Never mind, Bastard, I'm sure you'll scrub up just fine!" Theon called out.

"Very pretty, I'm sure," Robb joined in.

Jon glowered over his shoulder at them. "Shut up!" he snapped. "Just shut up, all of you."

That evening, straight after his supper, Jon made for his father's study. He didn't dare keep him waiting after his earlier scolding and wanted to try and recover some grace by making a point of having an early night. He knocked on the door and entered at his father's muffled command. Once inside, he stood to attention like a soldier on drill. He had bathed until his skin was red, raw and wrinkled. His hair had been trimmed and his clothes laundered and pressed, despite being new. To his immense relief, Lord Stark looked impressed.

"There, that's a lot better," he said, pressing a kiss on his forehead. "Now sit."

There was a second chair pulled up next to his father's large desk. Jon perched himself on it and watched as Eddard poured them both a drink. Summer wine, to his surprise. Jon took his cup and thanked him. He wanted to apologise for disrespecting his aunt; he genuinely had not meant to. But Lady Stark hated having him around and he assumed his status would come as an embarrassment to her.

"I did not mean to lose my temper," said his father as he sat back down. "But whatever Lady Stark thinks of you, the Queen thinks differently."

Jon sipped his wine and raised a smile. "She always sends me letters and gifts for my name day. I wish I had met her sooner. She sounds very nice."

"She is," Ned confirmed. "When I went to rescue her from the Tower of Joy, I brought you with me."

Jon had never been told that before. The shame of his earlier behaviour dissipated fast as he looked up at his father, hoping for more of the story. But the abduction and rape of Lyanna Stark was rarely talked about. It had hurt her so much she had been left barren by her ordeal. All the same, the King loved her so much he married her anyway. He would never openly admit such fine feelings, but Jon thought it was amazing that a man could love a woman so much he would raise his banners and fight to the death for her. Meanwhile, his father looked distant, as he recalled memories from thirteen long years ago.

"Having you in her arms, a little person to take care of, it pulled her through I think," he added, at length. "In a manner of speaking."

Jon couldn't help but blush. "Really?"

Lord Stark laughed. "I was there. I saw it. That's why I think you're her favourite."

"I'm nobody's favourite," he protested, coy and coltish as he dropped his gaze.

"Don't be so sure," father replied. "What I was meant to tell you this afternoon, when I caught you teasing your brothers, is that you will not only be in the line up to welcome the King and Queen, but that Lyanna has also requested a private audience with you. Don't be surprised if she requests to spend almost all of her time here with you."

It hit him that, for the first time in his life, he was being openly honoured. Honoured above Robb, even. The realisation made his hands tremble with nervous anticipation.

"I would not wish to overshadow Robb, father-"

"A little humility will do Robb good," Lord Stark countered. "And I'm afraid that Queen Lyanna's wishes override everyone else's. Even the heir to Winterfell."

A broad, bold smile spread over Jon's face. "In that case, I will do you proud. Very proud. I promise, father."

Lord Stark's smile was pale and forced. "I know you will," he replied, quietly.

A brief shadow crossed his face. Jon thought he looked sad, for a moment. But it was a brief, fleeting thing; just enough to get his attention. He couldn't think what it meant and before he could ask, he was being chivvied to bed.

"Take that wine with you; it'll help you get to sleep."

Following a brief hug, Jon went on his way with an excited spring in his step. Ghost was waiting for him in his chambers, keeping his bed warm. Still, he did not drift off until late in the night, after he had looked up into the night sky through his unshuttered windows and counted the stars. His lucky one was among them, somewhere.

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><p><strong>Thank you once again for reading. If you have a moment, reviews would be lovely. <strong>**Hopefully, the next chapter will be more compact.**


	5. Return of the Queen

**Thank you, as always, to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. It really means a lot.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Five: Return of the Queen<strong>

No one noticed, at first. Everyone was too busy running to and fro, carrying messages or organising the rank and file members of the Stark household. Cartloads of goods for the festivities were still clattering over the cobblestones, angrily choreographed by red-faced stewards and chamberlains desperately attempting to avoid a pile up. Lyanna trotted her Destrier horse over the drawbridge and under the portcullis completely unnoticed in the melee of departing deliverymen and chambermaids. She slowed the horse down, not only to avoid trampling unsuspecting household staff, but to drink in the sight of her childhood home.

Every brick, every turret and merlon remained exactly as she remembered it. She glanced over the glass gardens; her heart leaped into her throat at the sight of the ancient godswood as she rounded a corner into the main keep. Her ancient past springing back into life as though it happened only yesterday.

"I am home," she murmured. "Home at last."

She turned her face to the crisp blue skies and relished the cold wind blowing against her skin and rifling through her hair. She breathed in deep, a great lungful of the clean Northern air. Nimbly guiding her horse through the thinning crowds, she stopped outside the main Keep, mercifully free of the backyard hubbub, to be greeted by a sight that lifted her heart to the heavens. Her family.

Although only Ned's back was visible, she knew it was him. He and Lady Stark were marshalling their children, lining them up from eldest to youngest. Behind the children, the rest of the household were beginning to form up, even thought she wasn't supposed to be there for another hour. Robert had let her ride ahead for a private reunion first. She tried to study their faces; all of the children were looking to Lady Stark, following her instructions. Only one stood some distance away. A small, lean boy of thirteen; with raven dark hair and a face still bearing the soft roundness of diminishing childhood. He was a Stark through and through. The others were all Tully. The recognition of her son brought with it a painful twist of the heart.

"Jon," she breathed his name low under her breath, tears now sliding down her cheek.

Still, no one noticed her. She carried on watching her boy as he inched closer to his 'siblings', uncertain and unsure of himself. He shrank back from Lady Stark, even thought she said not so much as a word to him. It was as though he was trying to hide in plain sight, then go scooting back into the line-up once the coast was clear again. When Lady Stark darted to the other end of the line-up, the boy glanced over and noticed her at last. A bright smile spread across her face as their gaze locked into each other, but he only frowned in response. His head tilted a little to the left, curious and without a trace of recognition. Releasing the reins of her horse, she raised one hand in a gesture of greeting to him.

"Hello," she said, even though she was too far away to hear.

All the while, she smiled and wept as she watched his face crumple in confusion. Without her retinue, those who did see her did not realise she was the Queen. He stepped out of line, trying to get Lady Stark's attention. Inwardly, she willed him not to. For those precious few moments, it was just her and him. No one else had paid her any attention. But then Lady Stark merely snapped at Jon to get back in line. Then Ned snapped at her for snapping at the boy; a sign that tempers were beginning to fray in the build up to the big moment. She delayed no more. Wiping away the tears and painting her smile back on, she gave the horse a gentle nudge and set off at walking pace across the cobbles.

Faces familiar and new soon came into view. Ser Rodrick Cassel who had reluctantly taught her swordsmanship was there. So was Old Nan and Hodor the simple stable boy. Most others were new to her, the only sign of just how much time had passed since last she came to Winterfell. Finally, she caught Ser Rodrick's eye, a big whiskery beam lit up his whole face as, finally, she was recognised. Slowly, he knelt on the ground and bowed his head. Others soon noticed, too and followed suit. Except Ned, who whirled round to face her across the courtyard. For a long moment, while everyone else sank to bended knee, they looked at each other longingly.

Once more, her emotions swelled as she slid gracefully down from her saddle in one fluid movement. Landing lightly on her feet, she ran into his arms and embraced him tightly for well over a minute. During that time, they both wept and laughed and squeezed each other tight, pulling apart only to plant wet, teary kisses on each other's cheeks.

"Brother," she sniffed. "My brother."

They broke apart again, then Ned cupped her face and studied it closely as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"It's so good to see you again, Your Grace."

Lyanna squirmed. "I am not your grace, I am your sister."

"Sister!" Ned corrected himself with a laugh, gesturing to the crowd he added: "come and meet your family."

He held up his left arm, on which she placed her right hand. "I would love to. But Robert is not here yet, he is delayed with the rest of our household. You'll have to go through all this again when he gets here."

Ned waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind that."

Protocol demanded that he begin with the eldest and work his way down. If she had been introduced to her brother's bastard before any of the trueborns, the scandal would see tongues wagging from the wall to Dorne within days. Every single person was now kneeling, even the children, so Lyanna could not properly see her nieces and nephews. Only the tops of their heads.

"This is Robb, my eldest son and heir. You met him when he was a baby," said Ned, gesturing to his auburn haired eldest.

Lyanna reached out one gloved hand and raised the boy up again. He was tall and broad shouldered; handsome enough to break hearts with his sapphire eyes. He betrayed his youth by blushing sweetly under the gaze of the Queen.

"I remember you well, Robb," she said, kissing him on both cheeks. "It's lovely to meet you again."

He remained tongue-tied as Ned moved on.

"This young lady is my eldest daughter Sansa, whom you have not met before."

Again, Lyanna raised her up. A beautiful girl of eleven, with flowing red hair tumbling almost to her waist. The same sapphire blue eyes and pale, milky skin as her brother. The expression in her eyes one of utter adulation.

"Oh Ned, what a beautiful girl she is," Lyanna sighed, looking between them both before kissing her niece. "You will be the star of the royal courts one day, Sansa."

If Robb blushed, Sansa positively radiated; her blue eyes sparkling as she dipped an elegant curtsey. "Thank you, your grace."

They stepped along the line again, to a smaller girl of eight.

"This is Arya, our youngest daughter."

Lyanna realised her initial assessment was wrong. This child was pure Stark. Not as pretty as the others, but she would have other qualities. Lyanna cupped her tiny chin and lowered down so they were even.

"You have wolf's blood, child," she said, grinning. Little Arya returned the smile as Lyanna kissed her cheek.

Then came Bran, the seven year old with a heart melting smile. Followed by a confused looking three year old who was itching to go and play. Mercifully, Lyanna could once more stand at full height as she was introduced to a smirking boy of sixteen or seventeen who was neither Stark nor Tully.

"Our ward, Theon Greyjoy."

Resisting the urge to make squid jokes, Lyanna kissed his cheek as she had the others and moved on in silence. There was just one formal presentation left to make now, and it was the one that was consuming her heart and soul. He was still had his knee bent to the cold cobbles and his head bowed so low, his chin was resting against his chest.

"Last but certainly not least, Jon Snow."

Inwardly, Lyanna shuddered against her boy's bastard name and removed her riding glove before raising him up with one finger under his chin. He looked up into her eyes silent and nervous. Gently, she caressed his cheek and tucked a loose strand of raven dark hair behind his ear. She could feel him trembling and it was all she could do not to throw her arms around him. His eyes were so grey they were almost black. A true Stark, that made her heart burst with love and pride. With a small laugh, she realised she was almost as nervous as he was.

"Darling Jon, I remember the voyage we undertook together so very fondly," she said, resulting in a shy smile from the boy. Her heart melted all over again. "You and I shall speak again soon. I promise you."

With everyone looking, she was forced to greet Jon in precisely the same manner as the other children: with just a formal peck on each cheek.

Lyanna looked up at her brother, and mock chided him. "Have you not forgotten someone, brother?" she said, turning to Lady Stark, still in a curtsey. "Lady Stark, please rise. It is an honour to meet you again."

The two women embraced; but Lyanna dearly wished to kick her. Once they broke apart, Ned turned to his children and addressed them all.

"Now, all of you, fetch your pets to show to your aunt."

He clapped his hands, signalling for them to go. A sudden excited babble rang out as all of the six children took off towards the kennels. Lyanna watched them go, still smiling and utterly curious.

"Pets, Ned?" she asked.

"Just wait and see," he replied, grinning. "Now, come and meet the staff. There are many here who remember you fondly."

This, at least, was more informal. There were tears, hugs and kisses all round for those she remembered. Ser Rodrick; Jory who she knocked into the dirt during sparring matches and others; even Hodor and Old Nan had lasted the distance. After several minutes, however, the crowds suddenly parted and the children were back with their 'pets'. Six large Direwolves, savage and fierce looking, one for each of the children, all of whom now looked like true Starks. The albino caught her eye, just as he did in her dreams. She was not surprised to find Jon clutching its chain.

"They are beautiful!" she gasped, but approaching them only cautiously. "What are their names?"

She was introduced to them one by one. Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, Shaggydog and Ghost. Lyanna was amazed that the children were keeping them as if they were pets; for never had she heard of a Direwolf being tamed. Certainly not six of them. Shaggydog growled, low and menacing. But the others approached her easily; Ghost especially, as the albino nuzzled her face and rubbed his head against hers.

"They were hand reared from pups," Ned explained as she stood up again. "The mother died; gored by a rutting stag."

"Poor things," she said, looking them over again. "Wasn't there a seventh? I'd love one!"

They were standing some way off from the others now, as they were preparing to get back in formation for when the King arrived. Bran had just informed them that the banners of the royal retinue were visible on the horizon. But Ned reached into the pocket of his cloak and produced a key.

"Take Jon to my study," he said. "It's father's old study, but Jon knows the way if you've forgotten."

She took the key and kissed his cheek, whispering in his ear. "Thank you, Ned, for keeping your promise."

"It was an honour." A brief cloud of sadness passed over his features. Their eyes met again as Ned drew her further from the babble of people awaiting the King. They came to rest in the doorway of the empty forge.

"Actually, there is one thing I ask in return," Ned said, voice low.

Lyanna nodded. "Anything."

"Maybe it was wrong of me – and I know Jon will never be mine – but I love him, Lyanna. I love him as any father loves a son. Just promise me that when he is told the truth, we will tell him together and you won't just take him away from me without warning."

The pain in his eyes hit her straight in the heart. "Gods, Ned! Never!" she replied. "No matter what happens, you are the only father that boy will ever know and nothing will take that away. Nothing. He will always need you and consider, if you will, that he might never forgive me. In which event, he will need you all the more."

The intensity of the moment passed, and Ned managed to raise a wan smile. "Having an uncle who is also your father may take some explaining."

"If you think that's bad, just wait until he starts researching his father's side of the family," she jested.

Ned grimaced, but grinned all the same. "Go. Jon is waiting for you. By the way, don't get drunk at the feast tonight. Benjen's coming down and we're meeting up at the old place. It'll be the three of us, just like old times."

Lyanna's face lit up in a bright smile, revealing her neat white teeth. Memories came rushing back of the three of them climbing into the Broken Tower with wine liberated from their father's cellar. There, they would talk and dream all night – or until they were caught.

"Oh Ned, I haven't seen dear Ben since Harrenhal, when he followed that man to the Night's Watch," she said. "I'll be there, with much better wine this time. As soon as the feast is over."

A hug and a kiss later, she set off towards the boy in the courtyard watching her curiously. Still he looked timid and apprehensive. _I am your mother!_ She wanted to cry out.

Instead, she said: "Is Ghost allowed to come inside too?"

"Yes!" he replied, immediately unleashing a big smile.

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><p>Jon spun round on his heels and took off towards the kennels where the direwolves were temporarily housed. His new boots were cramping his toes, but he was careful not to scuff them all the same as he freed Ghost from his prison. Once reunited with his companion, they ran back to the Queen. She was standing where he left her, in the doorway to the Great Hall and just out of the sight of the others. Tall and slender, with a plait of dark hair that fell to her hips and crowned with a simple, but elegant silver, jewelled diadem; a satin and silk gown skimmed the length of her body. She looked every inch a Queen from the stories they were told as children. He thought that he should bow again before approaching too closely. Never having been introduced to great noble people before, his gesture was awkward and clumsy. Not like Robb and the others, who breathed elegance and courtly etiquette. But Queen Lyanna only smiled indulgently and reached out to stop him.<p>

"There's no need for that, Jon. I'm only your aunt," she explained. "Or do you bow to our Benjen, too?"

"I do not!"

The mere thought of it made him laugh. It was hard to equate such an elegant lady to his gruff uncle, and see them as siblings who played together as children. Still, he held out his left arm as his father had done and, to his relief, she placed her right hand on it, rewarding him with a smile. It made him feel like one of those Knights in Sansa's songs.

On the way to Lord Stark's study, one of the castle curs came slinking out of the shadows to sniff and paw at the Queen's train. She turned and scratched its ears before shooing it away, but as soon as her back was turned, the skinny dog came for another round. This time it was Ghost who dealt with the newcomer. Darting between Jon's legs, teeth bared in a silent snarl he snapped his iron strong maws at the unfortunate dog's neck.

"Ghost! No!"

Alarmed, Jon pulled him away by the scruff of his neck before a blood bath could ensue.

"Don't be afraid," he said, turning to his aunt. "He's only protecting you."

Far from scared, the Queen was watching them thoroughly impressed. The other dog at least had the sense to flee and not look back. Lyanna looked almost disappointed.

"Never lose him, Jon. He's a fierce friend and you can't have too many of those."

Once inside Ned's study, she secured the door behind them. Everyone was outside, waiting for the King to arrive, but still she seemed meticulous about privacy. A side effect of living at Court for so long, was Jon's guess. From this high up, they could see out over the courtyard they had just left. In the distance, the procession was still approaching. It would be another hour, at least, for that lot to pass through the gates and the poor children and staff were still formed up and waiting in the cold. Ned and Catelyn were back to marshalling them all.

Jon waited by the door, not sitting until he was given permission which only happened after the Queen had located Lord Starks drinks cabinet. She produced two silver cups and filled them both.

"Father normally lets us have one cup with our dinner," he pointed out.

Lyanna paused, half-way through handing him his cup. "Being Queen has its advantages, Jon. Take it, there's a good boy. And sit down. You're standing to attention."

That sounded to Jon like a royal order, so he argued no further. He sipped at the wine while Lyanna settled herself in Lord Starks chair, turning it around so she was facing him. For a long moment she studied him acutely. He could almost feel her gaze raking over him. It wasn't long before it began to make him uncomfortable.

"You rode in on a Destrier war horse," he stated, grinning. "I've never seen a woman on a Destrier before."

The Queen laughed. "Not very lady-like, I know. But I was never much of a lady, I'm afraid. When we were your age, I used to knock Jory Cassel into the mud during sparring matches. His father, Ser Rodrick, taught me to fight whenever my father went away on business."

Jon smirked, making a note to ask Jory about it himself just to see the look on his face. Then, he remembered something else. Something Old Nan once told him, but his father had certainly never mentioned.

"You were the Knight of the Laughing Tree, weren't you?" he asked, eagerly rocking forwards in his seat.

She looked at him curiously before leaning back casually in her seat. Still casual and elegant, she regarded him over the rim of her cup as she took a slow, deliberate sip of wine. Ghost had curled up on the rug between them, but even he seemed to perk up and mirror his master's curiosity.

"Now that is one of life's little mysteries, Jon," she answered with maddening vagueness.

Jon wasn't for giving up yet. "You were, weren't you?"

"Do I have a big, booming voice?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

His expression fell when confronted with the flaw in his theory. But almost immediately he perked up again. "You kept the visor lowered on the helm! That was what amplified your voice when you tried to sound like a man!"

"Maybe. Maybe not. We may never know, but the story will live on," she replied, still deliberately vague and enjoying teasing him.

Suddenly, Jon did see the point: the story would live on, whoever the mystery Knight really was. The truth could only disappoint. She put down her cup and held her arms wide open. "Now let me give you a proper hug."

He agreed and embraced her warmly, whereupon she kissed him softly on the forehead, then his cheeks again and the tip of his nose. She smoothed down his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. She broke away and studied him as though checking for missing parts: two eyes, two ears, one nose that she seemed particularly drawn to as she run a finger down it.

"You've grown into a handsome boy," she commented, making him flush again. "But tell me, truthfully, how have you been in Winterfell? Are you close to your brothers and sisters."

Once they were sat back in their seats again, Jon considered it. "I know I'm a bastard. But other than that, I love it here. They're my brothers and sisters and father doesn't treat me any differently. Once he told Sansa off because she kept telling Arya that I'm only a half-brother. It was upsetting Arya, too."

"And where was Sansa getting all that 'half-brother' business from? She is too young to have picked it up herself. Answer me honestly."

Jon glanced down at his new boots. They were shined to perfection that morning. "Lady Stark," he murmured. "She hates me and always has. They argue about me all the time and she always storms off in tears. Father wants to legitimise me, but Lady Stark refuses to back down. She said I'm only allowed to stay here if I remain a bastard." He looked back up at the Queen, plaintively. "Please don't tell her I told you?"

The Queen's expression had hardened. "Why? Does she beat you?"

"No, never that. But she is always insulting me and it will get worse if anyone says anything to her about it."

Her words cut deep. Sometimes, Lady Stark only had to look at him a certain way to make him flee the room in tears. It was the shame she brought down on him, as much as the insults she used as a rod for his back.

"I will not stir the pot, Jon. I promise you," she answered, bringing a sigh of relief from him. "So tell me, what do you plan to do in the future? You can't stay here with Lady Stark the way she is."

He raised a rueful smile. "I want to join the Night's Watch, like Uncle Benjen. He'll be here tomorrow so I'm going to ask whether he'll take me with him when he goes back."

"He won't," the Queen replied, firmly. "Nor will I give my royal permission."

Indignation swelled inside him. Queen or no, she was interfering in his life in a way he found humiliating. Sensing his impending storm of protestation, she held up a hand to silence him.

"I have an alternative suggestion," she said.

Jon drew a deep breath, calming himself enough to at least hear her out.

"How hard have you been training for the Night's Watch?"

"Very," he answered. "I practise every day without fail and regardless of the weather."

"What does Ser Rodrick say of your progress?"

"That I am better than Robb," he said, refusing to be modest.

The Queen raised one delicate hand to her mouth and laughed. Anger prickled at him, his pride dented. Being 'better than Robb' was his utmost, proudest achievement. She noticed that she was hurting his feelings and composed herself.

"Sorry, sweet boy, I am not mocking you," she explained. "It's just that 'better than Robb' still doesn't give me much frame of reference. But look, it hardly matters. Even if you're the greatest swordsman in the North, you're still only a boy. What I want to propose is that when the King arrives, we exercise our royal prerogative and legitimise you regardless of Lady Stark's protests. You will then accompany me back to King's Landing where your training will recommence; supervised by a member of the Kingsguard. When you reach maturity, you will join my personal household guard. How does that sound?"

It sounded like all his name days had arrived at once. It made him dizzy and giddy, so much so he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the fact he was already sitting down and in full control of his own bladder.

"Th-the Kingsguard?" he stammered, knowing them to be the greatest knights in the realm.

"Ser Barristan Selmy is a close personal friend of mine."

Barristan Selmy. Barristan the Bold. The subject of a thousand tales of gallantry and bravery. Some vital part of Jon's brain felt like it had just exploded. Stunned, he could only gape open mouthed at the Queen and pray she did not think him a simpleton. He tried to thank her, but merely vocalised some small noise round the area of the back of his throat. It sounded more like a dying whimper.

"But-but-but..." he stammered again. "Lady Stark?"

"Be damned," replied Lyanna, casually. "I would like her agreement before Robert and I override her. So I will put this proposal to her: that you will be trained with the Kingsguard in mind. Now, you must understand this, the Kingsguard is a sworn brotherhood, just like the Night's Watch. You will not be permitted to marry; you will be bound to it for life. There's no guarantee you will ever get in, but it still neutralises whatever perceived threat that woman sees in you. Meanwhile, your ultimate destiny will be up to you."

Jon laughed. "So, basically, you're telling Lady Stark I'm being trained for the Kingsguard just to get off her our backs and agree to the legitimisation? Then it's up to me?"

Lyanna looked thoughtful for a moment. "It's a bit of a white lie, but you owe that woman no loyalty, duty nor honour Jon. She hasn't showed you any."

But to him, it was not a lie. Like every boy in Westeros, he had dreamed of training for the Kingsguard, let alone actually being admitted to the Great Seven. The only thing that snuffed out his hopes was his birth status.

"But what about my father?" he asked. "He might not let me go to King's Landing with you."

But the Queen wasn't in the least bothered. "Interesting question. The King and I have a job offer for him, too. The Hand of the King. Before you get too excited, your delightful sounding sister, Sansa, is also being offered a place in my private household. I might teach her some empathy first. Arya is also being invited to Court, but that really does depend on the agreement of Lord and Lady Stark."

"Father will agree, I'll get him to agree to all of it!" Jon retorted, positively bouncing. "But what about Robb? Can't he come?"

"I'm afraid not, he must stay and learn to hold the North in your father's absence," she answered. "That's the beauty of your father's appointment as Hand. He can let Robb take the reins here while Ned's still alive to guide him. It won't be like when your father became Lord of Winterfell, thrown in at the deep end and left to sink or swim. The North is too important for that. You will miss him, won't you?"

He would. Greatly. "It won't be as much fun without him. But I understand why he must stay."

Lyanna drew a deep breath, clearly relieved that these affairs had been dealt with swiftly. "For now, keep all this to yourself until Robert and I have everything straight with Lord Stark. Otherwise, enjoy your last few weeks at Winterfell."

Outside, a fanfare sounded to the sudden beating of drums. Jon whirled round, towards the windows, itching to see if it was the King. But the Queen had not given him permission to move. But she took the hint with a gracious smile.

"Shall we watch the King's arrival?"

Jon nodded, before jumping up and opening one of the windows of the study. He had to climb onto Ned's desk to get a proper look; Lyanna scrambling up beside him. They had a bird's eye view of the King, mounted on a huge Destrier as he swept into the Courtyard. The smirking boy quickly moved forwards at Ned's command to help the King off his horse.

"Is that Theon Greyjoy?" asked Lyanna, looking down.

"Yes," replied Jon. "I don't think the King can see him."

It happened all at once, before anyone could stop it. Theon moved to the side of the King's horse, just as Robert dismounted. He swung his heavy frame down right on top of the Ironborn, squashing him into the cobbles with an elegance and grace that only Robert could muster. They were laughing so hard they had to close the window before anyone heard them.

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><p><strong>Apologies once more for the absurdly long chapters. But, thank you for reading and reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.<strong>


	6. Ice and Fire

**Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story. Thanks especially to those who reviewed, it means a lot.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Six: Ice and Fire<strong>

"I've not seen this before."

Robert was curious as he tilted the ruby towards the sunlight. The delicate gold chain had become entwined round his thick fingers as he lifted it from its box. Lyanna paused, half way through packing stockings into a chest of drawers and glanced over her shoulder with her heart in her throat. The last time he saw that gem, it had been crashing into the waters of the Trident. Luckily for her, all gems looked very much alike to a man such as him.

"It's a gift for one of the children," she replied, brusquely taking it from him. "I don't want the chain getting tangled. Where's the box it was in?"

Noticing the shortness of her tone, he handed over the small lacquered box with an apologetic look in his eye. "Don't worry, she'll love it."

"She?" Lyanna repeated. "It's for Jon."

He fixed her with the same look he did every time he needed to tactfully disagree with her. As ever, it failed.

"Have you got him a matching frock to go with it?" he laughed. "Don't tell me you've gone and bought war hammers for the little girls."

Lyanna sighed heavily. "Very funny, Robert."

All the same, the criticism stung. She gave up on the unpacking and moved to sit beside him at the foot of the bed, the ruby still resting in the palm of her hand. Her gaze lingered over it, watching as it caught the light spilling through the window of their guest bedroom. Many years ago, it had been her personal chamber. It seemed smaller than she remembered. Either that, or she had just grown. She carefully replaced the necklace in its box, closing the lid with a decisive snap.

"You're right though," she ceded. "This is a truly rubbish present for a boy of thirteen."

His arm snaked around her waist, tugging her closer to him before planting a whiskery kiss on her forehead. She remembered the day the ruby came to her; the day Jon was born, silent and serene in soiled sheets. It was the same air of timid silence he carried with him even as a growing teen.

"We've already brought gifts for Cat and the children, anyway," Robert pointed out. "We don't want to go spoiling them."

"I know that," she sighed, disappointed. "But I think Lady Stark is rather mean with that poor boy. I was talking to him before you got here: he's scared of her, Robert."

Robert shrugged his heavy shoulders. "It was a bit much. Ned expecting her to be a mother to the boy and not breathing a word about the real mother's name."

"You and I both know it's Ashara Dayne," Lyanna replied, carefully cutting off this line of conversation. "He collected the boy from somewhere in Dorne."

"But is it Ashara?" asked Robert, brow creasing into a frown. "Selmy is convinced Ashara's baby was a stillborn girl. Still, I suppose Selmy wasn't actually there."

He paused and drew a deep breath. For one worrying moment, Lyanna thought that he was going to continue down the same path. But when he spoke again, it was back to the subject of the children's gifts.

"Combine that," he began, nodding to the box in her lap, "with the gift we had made for him and Robb already."

Lyanna thought on it for a moment, before smiling brightly. "That's actually a really good idea."

"You sound so surprised," he groaned, dejectedly.

"Will it be ready in time for the feast tonight?" she asked, ignoring his affront. "I don't want the boys to have to wait for their gifts."

"An hour at most. All they need to do is chip out….," he conjectured, then trailed off. "Now what are you doing?"

Lyanna had got up and started rummaging through one of her strongboxes, searching for her jewellery. Among them was a sapphire ring her younger brother had given to her but she hardly ever wore. As soon as she had it, she held the sapphire out to Robert in the palm of her hand.

"They are brothers," she stated, holding the ruby in the other hand. They were roughly the same size: one set in a ring and the other still in a necklace. One smouldering hotly in the reflected light; the other sharp and glittering like a chip of solid blue ice.

Robert beamed his approval. "Perfect."

* * *

><p>Ghost looked up at Jon beseechingly from behind the wire of his pen. Big red eyes imploringly him for freedom. It tugged at Jon's heart, compelling him to kneel in the frozen ground and reach through the wire to ruffle the fur of the direwolf's head. Behind Ghost, his brothers and sisters lay confined and defeated already resigned to a night of captivity for the duration of the feast. But it was Ghost, still sniffing hopefully at the gate that made him feel so guilty.<p>

"I'm sorry," Jon murmured, stretching to scratch his ears. "I'll bring some chicken from the feast, I promise. A whole one, if I can manage it."

The others would all be doing the same for their wolves, so Jon knew he would have to be quick. Or liberate one from the lower tables on his way out. Already the sun was setting and the feast was due to begin. Reluctantly, he got back to his feet and turned towards the castle. Preparations had been going on all day. Wherever he went, it seemed he was getting under someone's feet. Whether it was the servants who were sprucing up the Hall, or his sister, Sansa, and her flock of ladies getting ready for the dancing or, worst of all, Lady Stark – he was getting in everyone's way. He even ran into the Queen a few hours back, as she was dashing into Mikken's forge with a large leather bag slung over her shoulder. He had offered to carry it for her, but she shooed him away with a gentle swat to see him off.

He had gone to seek sanctuary in the Godswood, only to find his father and Lady Stark in there. Deep in conversation, they had barely noticed his arrival before also chasing him out again. Robb and Theon were nowhere to be seen and even Arya was too preoccupied with trying to sneak a ride on the Queen's Destrier to bother much with him. With no other option, he had returned to his chambers to prepare both himself and Ghost for the feast. Only to find their invitations did not extend to their dogs or direwolves. Thus, he reluctantly and guiltily left Ghost in his pen and returned to the Castle alone.

"Oi!" a familiar voice called out, just as he reached the entrance to the Great Hall. "Hope you've perfected your curtsey if you're going in to meet the Queen tonight!"

Jon whirled round just as his Uncle Benjen swung down off his horse. Still dressed in the black of the Night's Watch, he was even skinnier and more rugged looking than Jon had remembered. But he still dashed into his Uncle's arms.

"Uncle Benjen!" he greeted him, excitedly.

Benjen laughed, mussing up Jon's hair before pulling him into a play fight there in the yard. But Jon managed to extract himself before he could get his clothes dirty and lead his uncle into the Great Hall.

"Are you coming to sit with us at the high table?" he asked. "You're the Queen's brother, after all."

"Of course! Don't expect me to sit with the peasants, do you? I do enough of that at Castle Black."

However early Jon thought he was, everyone was already assembled inside the Great Hall. Everyone except his father, Lady Stark, the Queen and the King. A senior Steward escorted Jon and Benjen to their places at the high table, close to where the other Stark children had been seated. Despite the numbers inside the hall, it was quiet and tense as everyone awaited the arrival of the special guests. Even Robb looked tense as he toyed with his knife and glanced nervously down the length of the table.

Jon, on the other hand, was immersed in the décor of the Hall. All down one length of the hall, the Queen's Stark banners were hanging; on the other side, the crowned Baratheon stag adorned the roof beams. Both house mottoes had been picked out in gold leaf, brighter and bolder than Jon had ever seen either before. The Stark colours of grey and white adorned every pillar and beam; along with the gold and black of House Baratheon. At the far end of the hall, the Stark Direwolf had been temporarily covered with the personal arms of the King and Queen: a Stag standing upright facing a Direwolf, their heads touching in a circlet of lover's knots and both crowned. The air inside the hall had been sweetened by burning herbs and the floors laid with fresh rushes, scented with flower petals. Tall candelabras stood between every table, stocked up on fresh beeswax candles. The flames casting a warm, golden glow over proceedings. Jon had to admit that Lady Stark really had thought of everything.

Not long after he arrived, a fanfare went up and everyone got to their feet. The doors at the far end of the hall opened, to reveal his father and the Queen standing arm in arm in the doorway. Both looked resplendent in their finery, but the Queen seemed to shimmer in the candlelight in a gown of silver and pale purple silks. Her dark hair fell in curls about her shoulders, almost to her waist. Carefully perched on her head was the crown that King Robert had made especially for her. As she and Lord Stark processed down the aisle, it seemed to Jon that thousands of gems winked and glittered from that crown as she turned her elegant head from left to right. A collective intake of breath rippled round the room at the sight of Winterfell's returning Queen, now taking her place at the head of the table. As she sat down, she turned to Jon and smiled at him that made him feel like, once more, she was picking him out.

As soon as the Queen was seated, the doors opened again. This time, the King and Lady Stark stood arm in arm in the archway. Robert Baratheon towered over Catelyn Tully, making her look like a flea troubling a mammoth as she linked her arm through his. But it was clear to Jon that the King had long since gone to seed from his days of leading armies and mounting rebellions that swept across the entire nation. He was fat, lumbering and florid in appearance, compared to his still lithe Queen. Still, he received more than polite applause as he also took his place at the head of the table.

They dined to music and chatted amongst themselves as the meal passed. But every platter the Queen inspected, she sent down to Jon first. Something that seemed to be causing Lady Stark actual discomfort. If she had had her way, he would have been banished to the back of the room, where the Squires all assembled. Nevertheless, the meal passed pleasantly, with Jon returning the Queen's kindness by making sure he sent summer wines from the Arbour straight to her.

Once the meal was over, when Jon was about to attempt his theft of chicken for Ghost, the Queen rose to her feet. As she did do, the music suddenly stopped and a hush fell across the hall. All eyes turned to her as she walked around the table, to the front of the dais. She faced the hall, but everyone at the high table could only see her back. Jon thought she was formally starting the dance, but it was his father nudging him to move that disabused him of such a notion. Lady Stark was marshalling the other children.

"Jon, go and wait with the others at the side," said Lord Stark, indicating a place under the Direwolf banners.

"Father, what's happening?" he asked.

But Lord Stark waved a dismissive hand. "Just go."

He got up, rather dizzy from the wine he had drunk, and followed Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon to the very edge of the Great Hall. From there, they could see Queen Lyanna again who was watching them as they all lined up at the side. Once they were in place, Lord and Lady Stark resumed their seats still at the high table and the Queen addressed the room at large. Jon could see her dark grey eyes shining in the nimbus of candlelight that flickered either side of her; the crown on her head glittering almost distractingly.

"My loving people," she began, arms opened to room as a whole. "I cannot tell you how proud and honoured I am to be among you all again, after so long an absence. In the south, they put this crown on my head and call me Queen. But here, with you, I am not that remote figure. I am a child of the North; a daughter of Winterfell. My way is the old way, as it with you and I will know of no other home but the North. Always and forever."

The Queen had to pause as applause broke out among the assembled crowds. Even up on the high table, Jon had not noticed how packed the place was. Other great houses from the North had sent representatives, and for first time he noticed the Manderlys and Mormonts were also there, mingling with the Starks happily; all listening to the Queen's speech.

"They say the North remembers," she continued, once the applause died down. "And I know now that it is true. For I remember always your warmth, resilience in a harsh climate and your generosity of spirit and fortitude. So it is with true humility that my husband, the King, and I present small tokens of our appreciation to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, as well as to their beautiful children."

A side door opened as the Queen once more fell silent – a silence filled by applause. Four men appeared carrying a heavy wooden chest, which the Queen made room for by stepping to the side. She held her hand out toward Jon and his siblings.

"First, Lady Sansa Stark," she said.

Jon and Robb exchanged a look, but said nothing about being overlooked. Meanwhile, Sansa flushed scarlet in the face as she walked as elegantly as she could to the Queen. Before mounting the steps to the dais again, she sank into a deep curtsey. Jon had to lean forward a little to hear what the Queen said to her niece as she was raised to her feet again.

"Lady Sansa, your mother has told us often of your skill at needlework and dressmaking," said the Queen, as the men opened the chest. "The King and I present you with a collection of silks and fabrics from all over the seven kingdoms."

Jon was unsure as to whether Sansa curtsied again, or whether she actually passed out. Either way, she was back on her feet within seconds and thanking the Queen graciously. Next, came Arya who had to look out of the window to see the fine young palfrey horse the King and Queen bought for her. Too small to reach, Robb had to step in and pick her up so she could see the men outside, holding the beast by the reins. Her gasp of delight made Jon laugh and ruffle her hair. Once she was let down, she dashed up to the dais to give the Queen a hug around the waist.

"The horse is young, she will grow with you," the Queen said, leaning down to kiss her. "Mould her to be the horse you need her to be, and you will master the art of horsemanship too, one day."

As Arya was helped back to her seat along with Sansa and the trove of fabrics, Bran was called up next. He was presented with several volumes of old and rare looking books that Jon couldn't even guess a name at. Then came Rickon, who was presented with his array of toys and learning aids. Even Theon Greyjoy was presented with a fine bow and quiver of arrows. That left Jon and Robb, standing together by the window and shuffling their feet awkwardly.

Once the others were seated and settled again, the Queen gestured once more for gifts to be brought out. A Steward appeared, bearing the same large leather bag Jon had seen the Queen with earlier and suddenly he realised why she had shooed him away. Now, the Queen fixed them both with a keen look.

"Finally, Jon and Robb both," she said, gesturing to them to come forward.

Nervously, they exchanged another look before setting off to the dais together. Also together, they knelt in deference to the Queen at the foot of the steps, where she left them. Jon kept his gaze fixed to the ground at the Queen's slippered feet as she lifted two large items from the leather sack and let it fall to the floor. He still could not see what their gifts were.

"Robb, you will one day hold the North," she began. "I know you will do so with all the honour, skill and sense of justice as does your father today. So until that day dawns, I want you to swear that you will endeavour to uphold the honour of our house, defend our people and continue in the path of your own father's footsteps. Do you so swear?"

"I so swear," Robb answered, firmly. He didn't miss a beat as he continued: "I swear to uphold the honour of our house, and defend our people from this day until my last."

"Rise," the Queen commanded.

Jon snuck a sideways glance at Robb as he got to his feet. He was shaking, Jon was relieved to see. As he rose, the Queen unsheathed a magnificent sword of glittering steel. A large blue sapphire had been set in the handle, where it sparkled like ice. The weapon was almost as tall as Robb was.

"When that day comes, you will wield the Stark's ancestral sword, Ice. But in the meantime," Lyanna said, presenting Robb with the sword. "The King and I present you with Ice the Younger. Use it well, and learn the art of swordsmanship, Young Wolf."

Aunt and Nephew embraced warmly as a ripple of laughter went round the room in response to the sword's name. But before Robb could take his place, Lyanna stilled him and signalled for him to wait. Jon felt sick with nerves as the Queen's feet once more paused in front of his face and felt her hand on his head.

"Jon, your life has been built on uncertainty set on a foundation of dry sand," she began. "You will inherit no titles and no lands. But from this day forward, you will forge your own path in life and your own innate courage and goodness will lead you to the greatness you deserve. We will do everything we can to get you there."

She rose him up, where he drew himself to full height and looked her square in the eye. In her hands, she held the twin of Robb's sword. But in place of the sapphire, a large ruby blazed red in the long, ornate hilt. The breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of it from the corner of his eye.

"To assist you on your path in life, the King and I present you with Fire."

It was a proper longsword, taller than he was. She passed it into his hands, sending a thrill of excitement coursing through him. Before rather than making him swear any vow, she brought both him and Robb together again. Her grey eyes shifted from one to the other as the silence in the room seemed to thicken. The atmosphere crackling.

"You two are brothers," she pointed out. "Brothers in arms and brothers unto the death. Let none divide you, regardless of what roads you take in life: for surely they will be different. But whatever the case may be, remain as you are: brothers. Love each other, defend each other and watch over each other. Swear it."

"I so swear," they both chorused, looking each other in the eye.

The Queen took a backwards step, watching closely and intently as Robb and Jon embraced each other. She breathed a sigh that sounded to Jon almost like a sigh of relief.

* * *

><p>After the feast, as promised, the three older Starks gave the dancers the slip and stole out into the night. The cold air hit Lyanna in the face like a final insult, but it blew away the close heat of the hall and lifted her spirits to the skies. Clutching three bottles of wine to her chest, she tottered across the cobbles to where her brothers were waiting, deep in conversation. Gone was the straight-backed, high minded Queen that addressed her people. In her place, the spirited sister they both remembered had re-emerged with splendour. Even the crown on her head had been knocked to one side and she hadn't a hand free to right it.<p>

"Are you two empty handed?" she demanded, disapprovingly.

Benjen was sat on a low wall outside Mikken's forge. He hopped down and reached behind it, lifting another four bottles – two in each hand – to shoulder height. "As Her Grace commandeth."

The three of them set off up the narrow, wooden stairs cautiously. Many Starks ago, the roof had caved in and made the tower treacherous. It had become more so since their own youth, causing them to take the steps even more slowly. Once they reached the top floor, where the boards had been hastily replaced with stone, they set down their wares and Lyanna jerked her head forward sharply to rid herself of the crown.

"Gods, that thing makes my neck ache," she complained, sinking to the floor next to where it landed.

If she looked upwards, through the patchily repaired roof, she could see the stars through a hole in the beams. Meanwhile, Ned struck a flint to light a small fire. The night was cold; colder than Lyanna remembered and all they had were their cloaks and mantles. When the flames finally took hold of the fallen wood that Ben gathered, Lyanna was grateful for it. She leaned back against the wall and looked up again, just as the smoke blotted out the stars as it escaped through the hole.

For a long moment, she studied the faces of her brothers. Both up-lit by the fire as they gathered around to warm their hands. The Night's Watch had taken its toll on Ben, who looked older than his years. The North had taken its own toll on Ned, too.

"Is there a reason why we're not drinking?" asked Ben, glancing at them both.

Lyanna jolted herself and passed over one of the bottles.

"I'll have one of those, too," said Ned. "I'll need it now my boys think they're ready to conquer the known world all by themselves."

Lyanna laughed. "Yes, well, sorry about that dear brother," she replied, handing Ned a bottle of fine red. Uncorking her own bottle, she held it high in the air. "A toast, I think. To us. To father. To Brandon, our beloved brother."

Three bottles met in mid-air, chinking together sharply as the toast was met and chorused.

"And to all our departed friends," Ned added.

"Departed friends," Lyanna and Benjen echoed.

They sealed the toast with a deep drink of their wine, each with their own memories and memoriam in mind. Between them, there was a wealth to choose from. But the sombre moment swiftly passed as they realised they were reunited once more. Not since Benjen had joined the Night's Watch, after the tourney of Harrenhal, had they three been together. Even then, Brandon's absence was still sorely felt.

Lyanna lifted her gaze to Ben, who was sat opposite her with the fire between them. The rising smoke distorted his face slightly, making him appear even more insubstantial.

"So, Ben, Direwolves south of the wall," she said. "Is there anything else we should know?"

"Wildlings on the move; White Walkers reported moving southwards. We have no men and no resources," he answered, seriously.

"I had to behead a deserter a few months back," Ned said, solemnly. "He said he saw the White Walkers himself. I thought it was just the fear talking, but then we found the dead Direwolf."

There was nothing Lyanna could do so far from the capital. But she listened to her brothers reports patiently. She knew better than to dismiss the Night's Watch and all that they went through.

"Send Yoren to King's Landing as soon as you return," she instructed. "I will help rally men. Good men; not just the dregs of the dungeons. If Ned accepts our job offer, we might even be able to work out some funding."

Ned groaned at the mention of the job offer.

"No pressure, Ned," she quickly intervened. "But, it would help!"

"Job offer?" asked Benjen.

"Hand of the King," Lyanna answered for Ned. "He's prevaricating over it."

Benjen rolled his eyes. "Seven Hells, Ned. What's stopping you? Leave Robb here and let him take the reins while you're still around to guide him."

"I've said all this, Ben," Lyanna pointed out, defensively. "I've said and Robert's said it."

"That's enough, both of you!" Ned cut in. "Now, someone let slip to Jon that this job offer was being made. Then Jon accidentally on purpose let it slip to Sansa, whose now practically married herself off to some great southron lord in her own head. Now I'm being pummelled from all directions to accept and whisk everyone away to court. I can't think where this all originated from!" He cast a dark look towards Lyanna.

"I hope you're not accusing me, sweet brother!" she retorted, innocently. "I merely mentioned it, in passing, to Jon."

"You're bringing Jon to Court as well?" asked Benjen. "Has Cat agreed to the legitimisation?"

"She will," answered Lyanna. "Or I will legitimise him anyway."

"Is it really your place to do that?"

Lyanna and Ned exchanged a glance. He gave just a small nod of his head. "Tell him."

"Tell me what?"

Before saying anything, Lyanna took a moment to gather her own scattered thoughts. She fortified herself with another deep draught of wine, straight from the bottle.

"You must have wondered who his mother was," she began.

"Wylla. A woman from Dorne. That was what I was told."

"Not by me, you weren't," Ned cut in, sharply.

"Wrong, Ben. It is me. Jon is my son."

Their gaze met across the small fire, through the wisps of smoke. His expression unreadable as it all sank in. She could almost see and hear the calculations going on his head. Quickly, he formed the only logical conclusion there was to make. "Rhaegar Targaryen," he murmured, almost to himself. "That is his father?"

"Don't be alarmed," she said. "No one's ever questioned it-"

"But he raped you!" he interjected again, forcefully. "He raped you and now you've got his rape-spawn sat at the high table-"

"Ben, listen!" Lyanna retorted, growing angry. "It wasn't like that and Jon is not 'rape spawn' as you so delicately phrase it."

Ned looked positively alarmed. "Even if he was, that was a dishonourable thing to call Jon. None of this is his fault."

Immediately, Benjen looked remorseful. He put down his bottle and came over to Lyanna to embrace her. After a moment's hesitation, she reciprocated.

"Forgive me," he said. "I spoke in anger, but you must know the story Robert put out after you were taken."

"One day, people will know the truth about Rhaegar," she stated. "My reputation will be less than pig shit, but that hardly matters. I just need my son, our son, to be safe. That's all that matters."

She knew the price she would one day pay for letting Rhaegar be smeared. But for her of all people to defend him could only ever lead to difficult questions. Difficult questions would inevitably lead to Jon, then Ned and the great cover up they undertook together.

"If you want Jon to be safe, then Court is the last place he should be," said Benjen, not unreasonably.

"He's Ned's trueborn son now," said Lyanna. "No one's ever questioned it and Jon's a Stark through and through. He and Arya are so alike, it will only bolster the story. And, of course, I am as barren as a brick. Everyone knows that."

Ned leaned over and squeezed her hand. "I am sorry that there were no more children for you, Sister."

So was she. In the beginning, she had resolved not to have any. After her wedding, it was almost two years before she could bring herself to share Robert's bed. Time passed, their relationship grew as she realised Robert was not the marauding monster she imagined and an ache for more children opened in her heart. But her moon blood never did return. The longer she remained infertile, the more she seemed to yearn for another baby of her own. She looked at Ned with tears stagnant in her eyes.

"You know, I once asked Robert if we could have one of his at Court," she said. "But he would not permit it. Not even when I have none of my own."

Ned sighed. "It would be unconventional, Lyanna. Anyway, how many does he have? Has he dishonoured you?"

She heaved a sad sigh. "Most of them were born before we were wed," she pointed out. "I don't mind anymore, Ned. It was natural. Then there was one or two born at the start. It was when I could not allow him his conjugal rights. Things were different after that. Now all he does is flirt with ladies from time to time. Robert's a charmer, Ned. You know that as well as I. Nothing can change him."

The truth was, she did not mind because she did not love him. To her, Robert was her best friend and a close confidant. Yet, he still adored her and lavished gifts on her. He allowed her unparalleled power within the Court and let her do as she wished. There were many lesser husbands who would not.

"Are you happy?" asked Ned, looking her dead in the eye.

"I will, if you and your girls come to court with me and my son," she answered, smiling sweetly.

Defeated, Ned slumped back against the wall and sighed mightily. "Gods, Lyanna, you are relentless."

There they remained all night. Talking and catching up for what they knew would be the last time in their lives. Dawn rose in the sky, the morning birds sang from the treetops outside. Still they talked, even as the fire burned out and smouldered into the grey day. Only when Lyanna got to her feet to scan the distant horizon and found her view blocked by a small boy outside the window.

"Gods! Ned!" she cried out, falling backwards into Ned's arms.

"Bran!" Lord Stark groaned. "What have we told you about climbing!"

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.<strong>


	7. Nobody's Son

**This chapter is complete diversion from what I had planned, but accusations of "Catelyn bashing" have stung somewhat. I love her as a character (I admit it shows much more effectively in my last story). But, I cannot imagine Lyanna liking her. Catelyn was mean to Jon. It is stated repeatedly in the books, by Jon, that she made him miserable and he even admits that "a look" from her could reduce him to tears when he was a child. I can't change that and making Cat a loving, doting step-mother figure would be wildly out of character for her. Also, it would take something vital from Jon's character – he wouldn't be the "outsider", and that's fundamental to him as a person. **

**Even if it hadn't been for Jon, I can't imagine Lyanna and Catelyn being the best of friends. They're two radically different women, one of whom has displaced the other as "Lady of Winterfell". The differences and clashes come on a political as well as personal level. **

**If Catelyn is told the truth about Jon's parentage, she would then become party to a massive act of treason. It would place her in grave danger with the King and I can't imagine Ned putting her in that kind of danger willingly. That's why he never told her in the books – if the truth came out, Catelyn and her children could plead ignorance and their lives would be spared. This is not a trust issue, but a life and death one. Still, I'm going against my own judgement of the situation here and having a Lyanna/Catelyn chapter in which the truth does come out.**

**I apologise to Catelyn fans who have read this and become offended by her portrayal. She's a great character, but like the others she has her flaws. One of them is Jon. Naturally, I can't keep doing this truth revelation thing because the story will turn into Groundhog Day and the real, central event should be (and will be) Jon finding out.**

**Finally, thank you to everyone (detractors included) who have read and reviewed this story. All of your feedback is enormously appreciated and I value honesty in all its forms. I want this story to be, above all things, entertaining. I hope those who have enjoyed it continue to do so. This story will not be retagged or redefined in any way. Thanks for the suggestion anyway.**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Seven: Nobody's Son.<strong>

"Oh Sansa, that is beautiful." Catelyn Stark ran the tip of her forefinger down the length of turquoise damask, where it was already draped over the mannequin. Her eldest daughter was standing to one side, pins at the ready to start picking out the shape of the dress it was soon to be. Still inside the wooden chest was lengths of scarlet damask, sarcanet for caps and headdresses; silks and linens in a riot of colours. Sadly, she thought, the scarlet would clash with Sansa's hair. But it would be used to make clothes for the children's dolls, cushion covers or even bedding. Not a scrap would ever go to waste.

Then, Catelyn had another thought. Her gaze darted to the other side of the room, where Arya was huddled over a loom and stabbing at the delicate threads as though her needle were a sword. The younger daughter's dark hair would be offset beautifully by such a rich red.

"Arya, sweetling, come here for a second."

Arya shrank back into the corner, trembling at the thought of more needlework and trying to make herself invisible. "Why?"

"She's not having any!" Sansa protested, simultaneously.

Catelyn heaved a sigh of exasperation. "Arya, child, I only want to see if the colour suits you. And Sansa, Arya is your sister: you must share what you have."

Sansa huffed indignantly in response, while Arya regarded her mother with a look of deepest suspicion. When her girls came along, Catelyn thought it would be like her and Lysa all over again: secret languages known only to them; heart and soul, inseparable. Two sides of the same coin. The only secret language Sansa and Arya seemed to have was the pitch of their screams as they bawled at one another and sitting them in the same room was likely to bring the whole castle down around their ears. It was only a mild exaggeration.

"What am I going to do with you two?" she asked.

But hope came in the form of Arya slipping off the stool and approaching her mother with her brow knitted into a frown. She looked like she was treading barefoot through nettles and Catelyn couldn't help but laugh.

"It won't kill you, Arya."

Arya did not look so sure. "It might. One of them pins might go straight in my heart and I'll die here on the floor, being suffocated on big piles of silk and satin."

Catelyn sighed again. "And I am just going to let that happen, of course!"

Nonetheless, Arya came to a standstill beside the mannequin and held out her skinny arms. Sansa passed the scarlet fabric to Cat, ready for the colour swatch test.

"You wouldn't even notice," Arya replied, indignantly. "You would all be saying: 'but oh, that colour suits you and oh, it's so pretty'. And I'm suffocating on the floor unnoticed."

"You mean more to me than a bolt of silk, Arya, I promise you," said Cat, holding up the aforementioned fabric. "No but really, this does suit you. I was right."

Septa Mordane had moved to stand beside Catelyn, and now glanced over Arya with a smile on her face. "We'll make a little Lady of you, yet."

Catelyn watched in resignation as Arya's face contorted into an expression of loathing. But before her daughter could say anything back, the old gods and the new answered her silent prayers by bringing a caller to the door. An intervention that broke off any further discussion of dresses, fabrics and making of Ladies. The door opened, around a small aperture the pale and worn looking face of the Queen appeared coyly.

"Oh, don't mind me," said Lyanna, before they all ducked into curtsies. "I was just wondering if I could speak with Lady Stark for a moment."

Queen Lyanna did not enter, so Catelyn took that to mean she wanted a private word. She glanced over to the Septa, requesting she watch over the girls while she went about the Queen's business.

Once outside, she and the Queen descended the steps of the tower and set off through the castle without so much as a word. As protocol dictated, Catelyn remained a full step behind the Queen so she could only see Lyanna's straight, narrow back. A dark plait of hair fell to her narrow hips, laced with silver threads that shone among the black. Instead of the cumbersome crown of the previous evening, she wore a plain circlet of silver that was set with the personal arms of her and the King: a stag and a direwolf, head to head; heart to heart. It reminded Catelyn forcefully of the direwolf killed by the rutting stag; sending a shiver of fear down her spine. She had taken it as an omen, fearing for Ned after he had been offered the position of Hand. But that direwolf was a mother – her orphaned pups now populated the keep of Winterfell. A small difference that she clung to. It couldn't possibly mean Ned. She shook herself down as they emerged out into the open air, ridding herself of such ominous, creeping fears.

Lyanna paused, turning her head to face Catelyn. "I'm so relieved to see Sansa enjoying her gifts. I wasn't sure about it myself, because when I was her age needlework was one of those things I lied about enjoying because it was what was expected of me. I would have been secretly despondent at such a gift."

"I can assure you on that matter, Your Grace, Sansa is truly overjoyed," she replied, drawing level with her. "In fact, all of the children are grateful. Arya for her horse and the boys for their swords."

Speaking of which, they passed the yard where the boys were now practising with renewed zeal. They were still using sparring sticks, much to their disgust. But Rodrik wouldn't have it any other way; not while they were still boys. Both Catelyn and the Queen watched them from a distance, just as Jon disarmed Robb. The heir to Winterfell was on his knees in the dirt, wooden stick to his throat.

"I yield!" his surrender echoed across the open square.

Catelyn's smile became forced; her stomach clenching painfully at the sight before her. In front of the Queen, she remained outwardly composed.

"Hmm," said Lyanna, softly. "So it's true: Jon is the better swordsman."

_So much for brotherhood_, Catelyn thought to herself. She recalled the speech Lyanna had given barely twelve hours previously, while making her son kneel with the bastard as if they were equals and swearing them to eternal fealty. Still, she could feel her lips compress as she fought to bite back on any cutting replies.

"My son learns from his mistakes, Your Grace. It's how he grows," she stated flatly.

"Well, he's getting a real education today, Lady Stark."

Catelyn snapped around to glare at the Queen, hands curling into fists inside her furred pomander. The few times they had met, she always got the feeling Lyanna was judging her; assessing her and finding her wanting. Now, at least, the reason for it was becoming abundantly clear. The Queen did not look at her, she was still entranced by the older boys sparring in the yard. Her pale face now had a pink glow as the cold wind buffeted away the cobwebs of her late night with Ned and Benjen in the Broken Tower.

"He has honour – like his father," said Cat, referring to Robb. "Perhaps too much."

"Yes, well. He's not the underdog, is he? That's the thing about boys like Jon. They're lean and hungry. They have more to prove; more to fight for. It gives them the edge."

Catelyn's carefully concealed anger morphed into a wry amusement. "Well then, that's one thing he has to thank me for."

Lyanna looked away from the sparring match and met Catelyn's eyes. A thin smile teased one corner of her mouth, almost giving her a twitch. "Maybe you're right," she said, before giving in to the smile. "Just maybe you are on to something there."

Instead of standing around to trade more ill-concealed barbs, the Queen turned and walked away again. Catelyn followed her at a distance, wondering what their meeting was really all about. She directed the Queen towards the Godswood, thinking she would like to reconnect with her northern roots. But Lyanna merely informed her that not even the old gods were permitted to hear what passed between them.

Instead, the two women fell into step near the woods that lined a closed off and private area at the rear of the castle. Once there, sounds from the outside world seemed shut off and not a soul could be seen. Snow crunched under the women's boots as they trudged towards the green pines, there scent cleansing and clear on the northern breeze. Lyanna reached a fallen oak from many years ago and brushed the fallen snow off it with her bare hands.

"Would you like to borrow my gloves?" asked Cat.

Lyanna glanced over her shoulder. "Thank you, but I'm fine. Come and sit with me."

Catelyn did so, grateful that she brought her cloak out with her. The air was bracingly cold, with a bite of impending snow on the horizon. Once the Queen was also settled on their hard oak, makeshift bench, they sat in silence for a moment. Neither really knew each other, nor did they especially like each other. But their conversation needed to happen – whatever form it took.

"So, you're taking Ned south with you," said Catelyn, just to break the silence.

"If he agrees to be Hand of the King," Lyanna pointed out. "All jesting aside, I really do think it will benefit Robb to be left here. You know, step out of Ned's shadow and take the reins."

Catelyn drew a deep breath, letting the cold air burn her chest. "It may surprise you, but I agree completely," she said, at length. Lyanna looked at her, eyes perceptibly wider in shock. Catelyn continued: "Honestly. I remember when he came back from the War to take up his responsibilities. In my head, Ned was a war hardened, fearsome man who was ready for anything. Like Robert, I suppose. In reality, he was like a little dog that had been thrown into a deep, stormy lake and was struggling to stay afloat. Just one wave would have finished him off. He was scared, timid and torn apart with self-doubt. Even now, after all these years, I do not think he feels equal to the task of being Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell."

Pausing for breath, she turned to look at Lyanna. The Queen was scuffing the toe of her boot into the banked up snow at the tree base. But the look on her face was serious as she listened to every word Cat said. But when she did reply, it was only one word. A name. A ghost.

"Brandon."

Brandon Stark, older brother to Ned and the Queen, who should have been Lord of Winterfell in Ned's place. But for the actions of the Mad King. Although she and the Queen barely got on, the last thing Catelyn wished to do was dredge up the past, where Brandon died trying to rescue her from the Tower of Joy. A place where the Queen was raped and beaten so hard, it left her barren and childless for life.

"Brandon's ghost looms over the castle like a storm cloud," Catelyn added. "It seems like everything Ned did, he did with Brandon in mind. What would Brandon do? What would father do? It took me years to get him to first ask: what would Eddard do?"

"Robb has been brought up differently to Ned," Lyanna pointed out. "Robb was born to this, unlike Ned. But still, Ned coming south with us would give him such a good opportunity to learn the ropes. To learn to fly; instead of being kicked out of the nest, like poor Ned was. As you so rightly said earlier: Robb needs to make mistakes and learn from them. With Ned around to guide him, he will have that opportunity."

But Catelyn would miss him. There was no question of her leaving Winterfell to go south. She would remain with Robb and the younger children. Rickon was barely a baby. She would ache for Ned morning, noon and night.

"Sansa was born to be at Court and will not deny her the opportunity you're giving her," said Catelyn, smiling. "But I must warn you, Arya is a little…."

"I'll teach her to swear like a Lady, I promise," the Queen replied, grinning.

Catelyn managed a nervous laugh.

"You're taking the bastard as well, I presume? He should go to the wall."

Lyanna snorted derisively. "The ice wall of the Night's Watch? Or the metaphorical wall to be executed?" The cold snap was back in her tone.

"You know very well I meant the Night's Watch. Tell me, Your Grace, do you have any of Robert's bastards at Court? Are you expected to be their mother and give them the name "Baratheon"?" The Queen's shudder was almost imperceptible, but it was enough for Catelyn to catch. She pressed her advantage. "Or are you expected to name them "Stark"?"

"Of course not," she retorted, lips pursing. "Seeing as they're Robert's bastards naming them Stark would be highly unconventional and I don't believe for one moment Ned wishes to name that poor boy Tully. He's suffered enough already. But who Robert recognises is his business, not mine. For your information, I invited Edric and Gendry to court once. But Robert refused."

Catelyn would have felt insulted at the slight on her family name, had it not been for the pitiably funny addition to Lyanna's statement.

"You invited two of them to Court once," she laughed, quietly. "Well aren't you the martyr to bastardy. I, on the other hand, must live with it every single day. He's there, all the time. Looking up at me with those dark eyes that belong to no one. A little cuckoo in my nest that I was told to accept with no questions asked. And if I asked anyway, woe-betide me, Ned would grow angry and shout. At me! How dare I ask who the mother is? He is nobody's son and I must accept that. You know what makes it worse? That bastard looks more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons I have borne him."

Her vision swam with unshed tears as she looked away from the Queen. At the edge of the woods, where they were still sitting, snow slowly melted from the leaves of a holly bush. Catelyn watched as the water dripped from the green jagged edges, revealing hearts of red berries from under the vanishing white. It felt like a thawing.

"Catelyn," said Lyanna, resorting to the familiar. "No one in their right mind blames you for being angry. No one. But you're directing that anger at the innocent party here. Jon didn't get to pick his parents any more than you or I did. He wasn't born a bastard just to annoy you personally."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Catelyn retorted, waspishly. "Don't you think I've had this conversation before and don't you think I feel ashamed of the things I say to him? I do, and more!"

Lyanna had her face buried in her hands; fingertips kneading tired eyes. They were red when she showed her face again. "I never knew Ned would grow angry if you asked. To be completely truthful, I thought he might even have told you in private and sworn you to secrecy."

Through all her tumultuous emotions, one more rose to the top and froze the others out. Those last few words snagged in Catelyn's head. For a moment, she gathered her thoughts and chose her next words carefully.

"He's told me nothing about the mother. It's because he's ashamed of having slept with some whore and doesn't want to admit it. Why would he tell me then swear me to secrecy?"

Even as she said the word 'whore', the face of Ashara Dayne rose in her memory as transparent as a spectre. A mocking ghost of a woman whom she had never met, but cast a long pall over her life. She was no whore. But she was probably Jon's mother. Haunting lilac eyes; dark brown hair that was said to have fallen to her hips. Her and Ned, dancing at the tourney. But the tourney happened two full years before Jon's birth. Meanwhile, Lyanna was glancing at the toes of her boots, now capped with melting snow.

"Because nothing is as it seems, Lady Stark," answered Lyanna. Her voice was barely a whisper; almost lost on the breeze as the pine tops rustled.

"You know, don't you?"

Catelyn's question was almost a statement, rather than a question. The Queen turned her face away, twisting her long pale neck towards the woods. It was dark in there, despite the crisp afternoon light. A small beaten earth track led into that darkness, but neither woman could see where it ultimately led. Lyanna's silence spoke volumes.

"Things are not as they appear," she reiterated.

When Lyanna did look back, her cheek glittered as a single tear slipped down her face and froze there. Her lip was trembling, but Catelyn was not deterred.

"Who? What could possibly be this big a secret?"

"It is dangerous," replied the Queen. "When Ned came back from the war, after he lifted the siege of Storm's End, he reopened our father's grave."

Catelyn remembered it. At the time, she passed it off as some strange and dark northern rite. She was forbidden to attend the peculiar little ceremony. At best, she thought Lyanna wanted to say a final farewell to the bones of Lord Rickard Stark before she travelled south to marry King Robert.

"Ned and I," continued Lyanna. "We buried some secrets for our father to guard. A silver harp. A wedding cloak that I was given. And a marriage certificate. The sword I gifted Jon last night has a ruby embedded in the hilt. I put it there because it once belonged to his real father and I know because I am his real mother."

No, not even the old gods could have been privy to this secret. But for the first time ever, Catelyn understood. She understood everything. Her heart was beating furiously fast in her chest as she tried to stand. But her legs had become weak, so she sat heavily down again.

"Gods!" she gasped, once she had regained the power of speech. "Why wasn't I told? Did you think I would slice the baby open myself? Send his severed baby head down to Robert in King's Landing? What sort of a woman do you honestly take me for? If you had told me; if you had trusted me-"

"It wasn't that!" Lyanna cut in. "Ned needed to protect you and your children. If you had known all along and the truth suddenly came out, your lives would have been in danger. When you were ignorant, you were innocent of our crime. But as things stand now, we are taking Jon far away and he will pose no threat to you. Just keep on pleading ignorance."

"Do you not think I could have helped?" Catelyn persisted.

Shock had given way to anger. Anger, as well as hurt that she had been frozen out of the family secret; not trusted enough and not even given the option to help.

"The more people who knew, the more dangerous the situation becomes," said Lyanna.

"So why are you telling me now? You're taking Jon south anyway. I need never see him again."

Lyanna wrapped her lilac velvet shawl tighter around her shoulders. Eyelids lowered as she gazed into the distance. The direwolf and stag wrought into her circlet shone as the sun pierced the clouds. The other direwolf, a mother, gored by a stag – the omen returned to Catelyn with force.

"I need you to agree to his legitimisation," she answered. "It's just one more thing I ask of you. I will see to his inheritance personally; he will get nothing of Winterfell nor Ned's estate."

Catelyn was about to say something. But the words seemed silenced by the after-shocks of the revelation. Tremors sweeping over her as small realisations dawned on her. An impact that kept on reverberating.

"The story put out about Rhaegar is a lie, too?" she asked, rhetorically. "You loved him; you married him. Jon would have been a Prince, had his father lived."

Lyanna's expression hardened. "He is Eddard Stark's bastard son. How you take that up with Ned is something I'll leave to you. But your role in Jon's life is at an end; as is his part in yours."

She sounded weary. She was barely thirty years old, but the Queen sounded utterly exhausted of the whole affair. After a deep breath, she got up and knelt in the snow, close to the holly bush. Between the thickets, blue winter roses grew wild and untamed. Their scent carried on the breeze once the holly was cleared. Catelyn watched as Lyanna breathed in their sweet smell. At the same time, she couldn't help but wonder whether she should have guessed the truth a lot sooner. It was almost embarrassing. Slowly, Catelyn got to her feet and crossed over to the Queen.

"There is no point in pretending that I was a model stepmother to your son, Your Grace," she frankly admitted. "But many women out there would have arranged for such a boy to have had an accident. Never once did I entertain thoughts of leaving him out to die. In return, I have a favour to ask of you."

Lyanna straightened up, meeting Catelyn's gaze. "Of course. Anything."

Although she knew they were alone, Catelyn cast a worried glance around the wooded area they were in. There was no one; not even a wild animal darting through the undergrowth. Silence weighed heavily; absolute.

"My sister wrote to me after she fled the capital and said that Stannis Baratheon poisoned her husband, Lord Arryn," said Catelyn.

The letter arrived just before the royals, and had been a deadweight on her mind ever since. However, the Queen merely looked nonplussed.

"For what motive? And, I just cannot imagine Stannis doing anything like that, even with a motive."

Catelyn didn't even know the man; she only had Lysa's letter. "I did tell Ned, but he just laughed. He says the same as you; he has no motive. But there's more. Lysa said that you were given a treatment for your infertility and that the Baratheon's had poisoned that, too."

"No," Lyanna shook her head. "I mean, yes Stannis' wife recommended a treatment to me because she took it before she fell pregnant with their daughter, Shireen. But it was prepared within my household. I oversaw it myself. But it did make me hellish sick."

Catelyn drew a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. "Still, will you please look into it when you return to Court?"

Lyanna nodded. "Yes, certainly. But I won't mention a thing to Robert. Lysa and the boy will be safe. But it sounds like someone has been feeding her poisoned information to stir up trouble. I would like to know who."

"You and I both, Your Grace," replied Catelyn. "Do you still have the recipe for the treatment?"

"I don't know. I used to keep them all, just so I had a record of what remedies I had already tried, but after that one made me so ill Robert begged me to stop. So I started throwing them out. I might still have it."

Catelyn felt a stab of sympathy for the other woman. "Thank you," she replied. "I will be visiting Lysa once you all return to Court. Luwin can help Robb while I'm gone. I will see if I can get more information from her."

"If you can, it would help enormously," Lyanna said.

With that, they returned to the Castle. The skies were growing dark and even the boys had given up fighting for the day. Ned and Robert were waiting for them on the steps to the castle, hunted boars strung up and slung over a horses saddle. Catelyn approached Ned with a smile on her face. He never did tell her his secret, so she kept her own locked in her heart and resolved to say nothing of what Lyanna had told her about Jon.

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><p><strong>Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely. Sorry if this chapter seemed rushed, but it was all changed at the last minute. <strong>


	8. King's Landing

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you!**

**Apologies for skating over Jon gifting "Needle" to Arya. It has happened in this story but everyone knows how it went in the books/show so I don't want to dwell too much on it.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Eight: King's Landing<strong>

Jon watched Winterfell receding into the distance from the back of a luggage cart. He had made his farewells brief, but he could still feel the spot where Robb had put his arms around him as they parted with a tight embrace. There hadn't been a single day in his life where his brother wasn't among the first people he saw in the morning and the last he saw at night. Bran was the same and even Rickon, the baby. Each goodbye was a reaffirmation of his leaving after two weeks of looking ahead to life that awaited him in King's Landing. Only when the last turret of his childhood home had vanished over the crest of a hill did Jon look away again. Wiping away the single tear that had leaked down his cheek, he climbed back up and carefully navigated the swaying cart to sit behind the driver.

Ghost, Nymeria and Lady were running along with the procession. If Jon stood up, he could see his father, King Robert and Queen Lyanna riding in state splendour at the very front. Arya was trailing behind on her new horse and Sansa was shut inside a carriage with her friend, Jeyne Poole. As the daughter of Lord Stark's steward, she was also being hauled southwards with a good chunk of the Stark household. But, with the exception of Arya and the wolves, Jon felt that he was leaving everything behind.

His final night in his own bed, in his own chambers, had been fraught and tumultuous. Sleep came in stolen snatches. When it did happen, it was a sleep broken with strange and disturbing dreams. Dreams so vivid he could smell and feel every passing vision. He had been walking through the empty, darkened chambers and galleries of Winterfell. He passed through the Great Hall, scenting the kitchens deep below the ground floor. He had been hungry in the dream and salivating wildly. Then, he caught his reflection as he passed a window in the hall: only instead of seeing himself, Ghost's reflection was looking back at him. It startled him so much he woke up instantly, gasping for air and shivering in a cold sweat. Even in the cold light of day, anxiety over the dreams lingered.

But it was over now. Jon sat beside the driver, who seemed to know every road and pathway between the Wall and the Red Keep. He was more than content to let the man's chatter wash over him as he chewed on a stalk of straw and let his legs hang down the edge of the cart. The ground passing beneath them did so in a rocky, jolting blur. Further and further south; farther than he had ever been in his life until the northern snows melted into the milder climes beyond. He watched it all pass in a malaise of dislocation.

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><p>Three weeks after leaving Winterfell, they reached the Inn at the Crossroads late in the afternoon. Robert had called a halt to the day's travel to give the horses and mules a rest and give them all some breathing space before starting the final leg of the journey. Provisions were quickly routed from Lord Horroway's Town while Robert vanished into the depths of the Inn. Lyanna, meanwhile, was no sooner out of the saddle than back in it again.<p>

After seeing the children safely settled in their rooms at the Inn, she went back out into the fading sunshine and retrieved her Destrier from the stables. From there, they galloped along the banks of the river Trident, back the way they came. She ordered her maids to remain at the inn, leaving her free to go at her own pace. It didn't take long to reach the Ruby Ford. As the band in the river came into view, she slowed her horse down to a walk and directed him over the marshy banks.

She could feel his hoofs sinking into the wet mud, followed by the suck and pop as he pulled himself free again. All the way into the waters of the river, until the horse was almost up to his belly in the river. The hems of her skirts were getting wet, but there she remained, gazing over the ford where Rhaegar met his violent death.

History echoed in her head. The rushing waters that now looked so lazy and placid as they bubbled over boulders and through deep ravines. In her dreams, these same waters ran red with blood; the shouts of the dying competed with the clash of steel on steel and the sickening crump as Robert's Warhammer smashed into Rhaegar's armour. The rubies glittered in the summer sun, shimmering into the murky depths. She had been at the Tower of Joy, pregnant alone. So her dreams were not even reflections of real memories; just the troubled imaginings of her own mind resonating down the years. It was still enough to make the breath hitch in her chest and her eyes mist over with tears that would no longer fall for him: the Prince she had lost that day. She had wept herself dry many years ago.

"Lyanna!"

Ned's voice even startled her horse, who skitted sideways so abruptly she had to grip the reins or face falling into the river. Her brother apologised and steered his own horse into the water to help guide her back to safety.

"We're all right, Eddard," she assured him, patting the horse's neck. "Just wait there; I'll be over in a moment."

Once the horse was back on dry land, she joined Ned on the banks of the river for a more leisurely ride through the picturesque countryside. It was all green, fertile fields of chest high crops ruffled by soft breezes. Emerald treetops that whispered softly to the birds in the boughs. A small idyll that held no real scars of the wars that once torn this land apart. It was almost like it didn't happen.

"I saw you riding off and thought you would be coming here," said Ned, glancing sidelong at her.

They were completely alone, having left the others some three miles down the King's Road. Here, they could both speak freely.

"I no longer think of it as much as I used to," she admitted. "But I've never been here before. Not since Harrenhal. I wanted to come. I felt as though I should come."

Ned shrugged. "Does it make it any better?"

"I don't think it's made it any worse," she replied.

They did pass the river on their way to Winterfell, but she had been so busy with that she hadn't had the time for a private visit. In the past, it had grieved her that all she had for a grave or memorial for Rhaegar was a distant stretch of water. But now that she had seen it, and saw for herself how beautiful it is, some wound in her heart felt a little better.

"It was over very quickly, Lya," Ned assured her. "He didn't suffer. Robert's blow, I think, killed him outright."

"Where did it happen? Was I in the right spot, earlier?"

"Yes, just on the bend in the river. They call it the Ruby Ford now," he explained, glancing over his shoulder.

Bringing the horses to a standstill, Ned dismounted and helped Lyanna do the same. Once the animals were at the water's edge for a much needed drink, the siblings sat side by side on a grass verge overlooking the river. They were in no hurry.

"You didn't spend as much time with Jon as I thought you would," said Ned, after a long pause.

She felt the heat rise in her face. It was something she had admitted to herself, but prayed Ned hadn't noticed. But after years of thinking she would one day have her son fall back into her arms, she realised only at the last minute that the reality would not quite match her dreams. The first meeting had been easier; giving him gifts easier still. But reaching out to her boy on a mundane, daily basis had been harder than she had ever imagined.

"I'm so stupid, Ned. I don't know what to say to him," she admitted amidst growing embarrassment. "He's my son; my flesh and blood, and I have no idea what to do with him. I never expected him to recognise me. I never once thought I could just breeze back into his life and say: 'Hello there young man, I'm your real mother and Prince Rhaegar is your real father. Your whole existence has been based on a lie, but that's life and now we can all live happily ever after.'

That would be a dreadful thing to do to Jon. But all the same, Ned, I thought there would be some deep innate bond between us. I thought there would be some sort of gravitational pull that both of us feel. But there isn't and the worst part is, I have this huge, all-consuming mother's love for him. And he looks at me like I am a stranger."

Ned was blunt in response. "You are a stranger to him."

"I know," she conceded, sadly.

"You won't establish a relationship with him by throwing presents at him," said Ned. "Spend time with him; give him a chance to get to know you and you to know him."

"But how do I do that without raising suspicion in others and appearing like a mad old relative who needs to be locked up in the attic to Jon?"

Ned laughed. "Gods, Lyanna, why would he think you mad for wanting to get to know him?"

"Because I might be overbearing and clingy," she answered, resisting the urge to hit him. "It's not funny, Ned! He's a young man, now-"

"He's a boy!" Ned interjected. "You're thinking and worrying too much about this."

"Seven Hells!" Lyanna laughed now. "When Ned Stark tells someone to stop worrying then it really is time to stop worrying."

Every meeting between her and Jon had been stiff and formal. He couldn't see past her status as Queen. What started out as endearingly clumsy bows and deference had formed an invisible wall between them. She needed something to smash through it and reforge a connection. Ned was right, lavishing expensive gifts on her son was low and counterproductive. Jon merely looked at them, thanked her stiffly and gone on his way wondering why she was giving him things he didn't really need or want.

"So stop worrying," Ned reiterated. "Think of something. You have a free evening now. Jon also has a free evening. Don't waste another opportunity."

Lyanna had already resolved not to. They got to their feet and mounted their horses again, ready to return to the Inn. Once they were in motion again, they enjoyed the setting sun and chatted idly. If she turned to her right, looked up hill, the spectral ruins of Harrenhal stood darkly against the sky with towers and turrets that looked like broken fingers. She remembered the Tourney as though it happened only yesterday; where Rhaegar had crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty.

"Oh Ned, isn't it sad?" she sighed deeply, still looking up at the ruins of a once great fortress. "So many beautiful memories reduced to rubble."

But Ned wasn't listening.

"Arya!" he called out. "What are you doing? You'll be soaked!"

"Oh no," Lyanna groaned, jolted out of the past again. "Arya, be careful child!"

It was too late. Lyanna watched helplessly as her niece plunged into the waters with her wolf. Ned had to charge in on his horse and pull her out.

"I want to find the rubies!" she protested. "Rhaegar's rubies!"

Ned plucked her from the waters as easily as if she were nought but driftwood. Sodden and dripping, she was deposited on the riverbank.

"There are no rubies," he assured her, wearily. Then, he cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder. "Sorry," he added to Lyanna.

But she wasn't upset. "It's all right, honestly. She's just a child." And she wasn't to know, she added in her own mind. "I'm afraid there's only two left unaccounted for. Five are at the Quiet Isle and two at large."

On that flattening note, the three of them set off together for the Inn. But it was as Lyanna looked back at the river and up at the ruins of the castle that inspiration finally struck.

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><p>The entire hall of the Inn had to be given over to the royal party. Jon ate his dinner alongside his sisters and father, silently observing everyone else. The King was loud and merry, making the tavern wenches laugh with lewd jokes. As always, his father was deep in conversation with the Queen. Sansa and Arya looked daggers at each other. All to a background racket of bawdy songs and raised voices all holding several conversations. Meanwhile, Sansa's friend Jeyne kept looking at him and giggling in a manner that was starting to wind him up. She had been doing it ever since he was legitimised and his 'prospects' improved.<p>

Eventually, even Sansa noticed and her formerly indulgent smile solidified into a look of disdain.

"If you ask me, that piece of parchment changes little," she said. "I don't see how it can magically make him a trueborn Stark. If you ask me his prospects remain bleak."

"But, no one was asking you," Arya butted in. "So shut up!"

Jon looked to his father for intervention, but he was still head to head with the Queen. Anger was rising inside him, compelling him to stab at his chicken with the knife in his hands as though it had personally wronged him. It shamed him that Arya was quick witted enough to do a better job of defending him than he was. Compounding matters, he had been on the road for weeks and there was still no end to their journey in sight. Days spent being jolted about on a luggage cart listening to the driver wittering on about places Jon had never heard of nor had any desire to hear of. He had since resolved that no man could have such omnipotent knowledge of a place as vast as Westeros and resolved that he was making more than half of it up just to annoy him.

"I need some air," he snapped to the table at large, before stomping outside with Ghost at his heels.

The sword, Fire, was sheathed at his hip. As soon as he got outside, he drew it completely and sat on a low wall outside the Inn. There was no quintaine to run at, so he had to content himself with watching the smooth surface of the blade reflect the moonlight. Sansa was right, he thought gloomily to himself, his legitimisation changed nothing. He had gone from being a bastard to somehow being an ex-bastard. But years of being straight-up Ned Stark's bastard wouldn't be consigned to the annals of history with just one piece of paper. Nor did it magically reveal to him the identity of his mother. It was as secret and touchy as ever it was and his father now seemed to scold him all the heavier for asking.

"Everything is pointless," he murmured to himself.

"That bad is it?"

Jon hopped down off the wall, whirling round to find the Queen standing in the doorway of the Inn. Suddenly, he felt rather foolish for talking to himself, however briefly. Casually, she walked over to him and sat down on the wall he had just vacated.

"I'm sorry, I just wish we were there," he replied, settling down next to her. "It feels like we've been on the road for forever."

Lyanna draped one arm around his shoulders. "I know, and we'll be home soon. Maybe you need to get away from the others for a while?"

The idea appealed greatly, but the drawbacks were obvious. "Where?"

She kissed the top of his head. "Just follow me. It'll be an adventure."

Light-footed, the Queen slipped down from the wall and vanished round the back of the Inn. She reappeared moments later with two saddled horses, leading them by the bridles. Curiosity and trepidation mingled in him as Jon as he took the smaller horse. "I don't think my father will let me go far."

Lyanna was dismissive as she mounted. "He knows, stop worrying. Now follow me, and don't overtake. If you need to stop, just call out and I should hear you."

_Should_, thought Jon. But, he cast his caution to the wind and followed all the same.

* * *

><p>The ruins of Harrenhal looked even more ominous and foreboding in the light of a full moon. A low mist swathed the ruined out buildings, the great hall was open and exposed to the elements. Only the main keep was still standing. It was probably still habitable, but the curse had driven the Whents out a long time ago. Lyanna brought her horse to a halt by the ruins of the curtain walls, signalling for Jon to do likewise. Once he too was at a halt, she helped him down from the saddle and set him back on his feet. From there, he looked in wonder at the castle.<p>

"This is Harrenhal," he said, quietly. "My father told me about this place."

"About the tourney?" she asked. "Come and have a look round with me."

She held out her hand for him to take, but he was hesitant.

"They say the ghosts of Harren and his sons still haunt the place at night," he said, tremulously. "We shouldn't anger the dead."

"It's the living you should fear, Jon. Not the dead."

The past came alive in her memory as they walked, arm in arm, through the ruins. She told him everything she could remember, which was almost everything. The grounds where they ran the lists was now overgrown, with weeds sprawling over the tracks. The wooden spectator's stands had rotted and caved in on themselves, making them too dangerous to approach. But in her head, she could see it as it was. She could hear Rhaegar's huge Destrier charging down the lists and the crash of her elder brother, Brandon, as he was thrown from his mount and defeated. The only ghosts there that night were the ghosts of the men and friends she had loved and lost from those heady days.

"I was there," she said, pointed to a fallen oak tree that had crashed into the stands. "I was there with your father, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen crowned me with a laurel of blue roses. He played his harp later, and all the girls cried."

She turned in a wide circle, looking up at the ruined towers that now surrounded them. It was in the north tower that Ned danced with Lady Ashara and Lyanna remembered everything. The music, the gowns and the food. The banners fluttering in the springtime sun. They thought that summer was coming, the naïve fools they were.

"You're crying," said Jon. "Don't cry."

Lyanna felt foolish for not even noticing the tears slipping down her face. She had been so caught up in her memories she had almost travelled back in time and left him behind. Wiping at them with her sleeve, she apologised profusely and attempted to laugh. He led her over to a part of the stands that still looked safe to sit on. There, he knelt down beside her and wrapped his arms tight around her.

"Don't be upset. King Robert rescued you in the end, and Rhaegar paid for what he did to you here," he said. "I don't think Rhaegar was a true Prince at all."

Drawing a deep breath, Lyanna looked at Jon and struggled to think of some way to reply to that. He was only repeated what he had been told for his entire life – a lie to protect him and keep him safe. But visiting the Ruby Ford earlier that day had resurrected the ghost of Rhaegar Targaryen in her own heart, and couldn't let the slander go on. Not from his own son; there was nothing in the world that could justify it now.

"Jon," she said, still gathering her thoughts. "There were many things happening back then that were not as they may seem now. You must not think unkindly of Rhaegar Targaryen."

He looked small and pale in the moonlight. His grey eyes shone, reflecting the silver of the moon; a lock of dark hair hanging by his ear. She gently tucked it away, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"How can we not think unkindly on the Dragons, after what they did?" he asked, innocently. "Everyone knows the story, so you don't have to pretend. You did nothing to be ashamed of."

"Everyone's done something they're ashamed of," she pointed out. "There's none of us perfect. Myself and Rhaegar Targaryen included. I do not, have never and will never hate him. Nor must you. Understand?"

He clearly didn't, but he nodded all the same. Instead of arguing further, he unwittingly steered the conversation into even hotter waters. "Did my father meet my mother here, at the Tourney?"

"No," she replied, firmly. "I think they had known each other all their lives."

"Really? I heard-"

"That's enough, Jon," she cut him off. "Your father and I will one day tell you all about what happened. Now come on, we haven't finished the tour."

She got up and walked down from the stands, grateful for having chosen flat shoes. Jon followed her, daringly running ahead now. He wanted to explore the ruins and wake the dead, regardless of his earlier timidity. But every time he vanished from sight, her heartbeat raced and she began to worry.

"Don't go too far!" she would call after him. "Stay where I can see you."

Yes, she was his mother. If only he knew it.

* * *

><p>The following morning dawned bright and clear. Last night's adventure at Harrenhal had cheered him up and given him something to make Arya jealous. She would have relished a ghost hunt among the misty ruins of a once splendid seat. Jon ate a hearty breakfast, regaling her with all the details and making her turn green. Even Sansa silently fumed as he spent so much time with the Queen and even Jeyne's juvenile simpering seemed tolerable. He fed Ghost with fat rashers of bacon, slipped under the table while his father wasn't looking and filled his water skein with small ale before heading out into the morning sun.<p>

Already the outriders were galloping off down the dusty road. King Robert was his loud and rambunctious self as he danced with Queen Lyanna as one of their men played a fiddle. He waved at his aunt, who flashed him a big smile in return as he went to find his luggage cart. The driver was waiting for him on the road, but he wasn't alone anymore.

Sitting in Jon's seat was a girl of roughly fourteen or fifteen. Jon scowled at her, wondering who she was. She was slim, wearing a white bodice and smock dress. Her hair was golden and fell in loose ringlets, but was currently tied up in a simple pony tail. She had large blue eyes that were too big for her face and a red-lipped smile that was bigger still.

"Hello there," she said, between taking bites from a fat red apple. "Do you want to sit here?"

"That's my cart," he pointed out, indignantly. "You should find somewhere else."

"Oh, don't worry about that," she beamed, waving the apple at him. "There's plenty of room."

Realising she wasn't one to take a hint, Jon reluctantly climbed up and sat next to her. He shrunk to the side, putting as much distance between them as possible. However, as well as not taking a hint, she didn't give up either.

"My name's Fritha," she said. "Everyone just calls me Frith, though. It's the same as Fritha, only without the 'ahhhh' at the end. So call me Frith."

While she spoke, he kept his gaze trained on the road ahead and took only brief, sidelong glances at the girl. She stared at him intently.

"My name's Jon," he said, reticently. "Everyone calls me Jon, which is the same as Jon. So call me Jon."

With luck, she was only hitching a ride down the King's Road and would be jumping off at the next town.

"Are you coming to King's Landing too, then?" she asked.

Jon's hopes sank. "Yes."

She beamed brightly, showing dazzling white teeth that hadn't seen so much as a grain of sugar before. She wasn't high born, but she kept up a stream of chatter as they trundled off down the road. Only reluctantly could he bring himself to admit that, once he got used to her, Fritha was actually rather fun. Which was as well, because she was there on the cart every morning. All the way to King's Landing, and up to the Red Keep, where she would starting work in the kitchens soon.

As they entered the capital, Jon looked up at the famous Red Keep, awed by its size. Easily twice the size of Winterfell, set on a vast hillside that overlooked the entire city on one side and a wide bay on the other. Jon had never even seen the sea before. Everywhere, new sites awaited him and he scarce knew where to look. Finally, they had reached their journey's end.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks again for reading and reviews would be lovely. <strong>

**Just as an advance warning, I'm moving house in real life so my next update may be some time in coming. But I won't abandon this story. Thanks again for reading. **


	9. Exiles

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thanks. It turns out I'm not moving this week, so have another update before I do. Enjoy.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Nine: Exiles<strong>

Lyanna stifled a yawn as she leaned back in her seat, allowing Ysilla Royce to brush her hair through. It was late by the time they made it back to the Red Keep, then she and Robert had to formally swear Ned in as Hand of the King so he could begin his duties first thing on the following morning. Then she had to oversee preparations for the upcoming family dinner. By the time she made it back to her private quarters, a full moon was hanging over Blackwater Bay. She watched, through the open balcony doors, as its reflection shimmered on the distant shivering tide.

Sansa, Jeyne and Jon had been allocated separate chambers that adjoined her own through a small gallery. But, with Arya being considerably younger, she had been given rooms that adjoined her father's in the Tower of the Hand. There was a plan of the castle on the dresser in front of Lyanna and she lifted her head enough to see it. Jon was close to her, to her relief. Their private rooms were all accessible through a small gallery that opened out through a rear door in her own rooms. She even shared a balcony with them.

"Did you enjoy Winterfell, Your Grace?"

She glanced into the mirror, where she could see her Lady in Waiting still with her attention focused on the braid.

"Oh, it was wonderful. Did anything happen here while we were away?"

Suddenly, the braiding stopped as Ysilla seemed to become distracted. But she was only reaching for the hand mirror, so Lyanna could see the resulting braid.

"You didn't miss much and you didn't quite manage to miss the return of _'him'_," she replied, holding the mirror up to the back of Lyanna's head. "There, how's that?"

"Perfect, thank you," said Lyanna, turning round to face Ysilla properly. "By 'him' I presume you're referring to Lord Ashford? When did he get back?"

"About a week ago. He's been waiting for an audience ever since."

Lyanna sighed. "I'll see him, but not until the children have been fed and put to bed."

Ysilla smiled as she put back the hand mirror. "I think it will be good for you to have the children here. Are they nice?"

"I agree and I want to be a good mother figure to them while they're away from their real one for so long," she explained. "Sansa is already a fully packaged Lady; Arya is wild and wonderful and Jon is … Jon is rather shy and timid, actually. I am hoping he will blossom if given a chance to step out of the shadow of his brothers."

Lyanna stood up so Ysilla could brush her gown down. She only had time to change the outer skirts and they were still creased from the journey south.

"Is the King joining you?" asked Ysilla.

"No, he's exhausted from the journey and has gone to bed," Lyanna replied. "I will want to see Robert once I've finished speaking with Lord Ashford. He won't mind being woken up."

Once the gown was smoothed out as best as Ysilla could manage, a knock sounded at her door. The two women exchanged a look.

"If it's him, he'll be easily gotten rid of," Ysilla whispered.

Lyanna nodded. "Enter!"

They both watched the door as it opened. Initially, no one entered but a moment later Jon peered nervously round the edge. Whoever had been placed in charge of him had combed his hair into a side parting in an attempt to keep the fringe from his eyes and he wore the same soft grey and white woollen breeches he had when he was first presented to her, all those months ago. Stark colouring, both physically and sartorially. Both women stifled their sighs of relief.

"Come in, Jon. Your father and sister's will be here soon," said Lyanna. Turning to Ysilla, she thanked her maid again and dismissed her for the evening. "If you see _'him'_ tell him to wait in my chamber of presence."

Ysilla bobbed a quick curtsey before stepping round Jon and vanishing into the outer-chambers. Before too long, Lyanna could hear a muffled exchange from outside between her Maid and an all too familiar sounding voice. She swiftly closed the door and turned to Jon. "Let's meet them, shall we?" she suggested, over-brightly.

* * *

><p>Dinner was a subdued affair, served in the Queen's private solar. They were all worn out after their journey – a fact emphasised by Arya dozing off at the table and only being jolted back into consciousness by her own fork crashing against the plate. Despite being only a few blinks away from being a similar state, Jon took to discretely nudging her every time her eyelids drooped closed. For Sansa and him, it was their own hunger that kept them anchored to the right side of consciousness.<p>

A large three-pronged candlestick was set in the centre of the table, the light from which flickered inconstantly over the faces of the diners. It felt close and intimate, even with the handful of servants that had taken up position round the room. Earlier, they had loaded Jon's plate up for him – something he was used to doing himself at Winterfell. Before he left his new chambers, someone had even laced his boots up for him. It was all well and good, but he had a feeling it would grow irksome after a while.

"Robert's made Jaime Lannister Warden of the East," said Lord Stark.

Jon was drawn out of his own private reverie as he turned to look up at his father. He knew who Jaime Lannister was, but had never met him. They hadn't met anyone interesting yet, much to his disappointment. He had assumed the Court would have been stuffed with them. Instead, he had been parted from the only friend he had made as Fritha joined the kitchens, before being consigned to unpacking duties.

"Isn't Jaime Lannister in the Kingsguard?" asked Jon. "I thought they couldn't hold titles, like the Night's Watch."

"It's not quite as simple as that," explained his father. "they go where the King tells them. But, the point is, Jaime Lannister taken Jon Arryn's land."

Curious about what was going on, Jon turned to the Queen, wondering why his father seemed angry with her. She did not reply immediately. For the time being, she seemed preoccupied with cutting her meal into small, equally sized squares.

"There was nothing I could do to stop it, Ned," she eventually said. "Robert was adamant that you be Hand and Jaime take the East. Jon Arryn's son is not old enough, nor strong enough, to do it himself. For what it's worth, I agree with Robert."

"Really?" asked Ned, looking his sister in the eye. Lyanna did not look back.

"Of course. This way, Robin gets to stay with Lysa and someone who knows what they're doing gets to take care of the East. It's too important to mess about with," Lyanna seemed to be speaking more to her plate than to Lord Stark. "And it will take him and his wretched sister away from Court."

"Cersei?"

Finally, Lyanna looked up at Ned as she sipped her wine. Both of them laughed, but Jon didn't know what was supposed to be funny.

"They never part from each other, Ned. You should hear some of the rumours about them."

Ned rolled his eyes. "No thank you, Sister. But I have more news for you."

"Really? What?"

Before he elaborated, Lord Stark glanced around the table at his children. While Jon had been immersed in the conversation of the adults, Arya had fully fallen asleep and Sansa was only half in the land of the living herself. For one horrifying moment, Jon thought he was about to be sent from the room. But after a brief pause, Lord Stark continued but Jon swore he had fixed him with a most calculating look.

"Your husband is raging over Daenerys Targaryen," he said in an undertone. "Had you heard? Her brother is marrying her off to Khal Drogo, some Dothraki horse lord."

The Queen almost choked on her venison and had to take a hasty mouthful of wine. Once she had composed herself, she drew a deep breath. Jon could only surmise that this was news to her. Unwelcome, at that.

"Gods Ned, she is still a child. Well that explains Robert's sudden need for an early night," she said. "Do you know something, brother, I suspect its Jorah Mormont feeding this information back to us."

"Really? How so?"

Finally, they were talking about something Jon also knew about. Jorah Mormont: an exiled Bear Islander who had escaped Lord Stark's justice after being caught trading slaves. Jon recalled his father's towering rage after the incident with uncomfortable clarity. He watched the Queen's reaction carefully, but she did not seem concerned. She merely took another dainty bite of a perfect square of venison and chewed thoughtfully.

"I was as angry as you were about Mormont's illegal activities; he dishonoured the North and his family name," she eventually explained. "So when I heard reports of him passing through the Free Cities, I decided to have him shadowed. The last despatch I got was that Mormont was riding with Khal Drogo's Khalasar and I really didn't think anything of it – I rather hoped Drogo would do our job for us. But now you mention this marriage and it's too much of a coincidence, Ned. Mormont's ingratiating himself with the Dothraki and getting close to a vulnerable girl, thinking to sell her out in return for a pardon from the King. Then he will be free to return to Bear Island and strike against you and me. Men like him are all too predictable. Lady Maege, on the other hand, remains true and loyal to us Starks. I know who I prefer to have ruling Bear Island."

Shadows swelled and shifted across the back wall as the candle flames wavered on a sudden draught. Half of the conversation had washed straight over Jon's head, but he still prickled with goose bumps as the intrigue slowly darkened. Without him gently nudging Arya, she had fallen properly asleep, with her small head resting against her father's left arm. Even the lack of songs and knights in the adult talk and zoned Sansa out and she was now keeping herself awake with small sips of wine. Lord Stark, however, seemed to have forgotten their presence in the room.

"Is your informant still out there?" he asked the Queen.

Lyanna shook her head. "I will speak to him again soon. I promise you. In the meantime…" she broke off and nodded to Arya.

"Gods, I'll put her to bed now," said Eddard. He manage to stand and pick up Arya at the same time without waking her.

"I'll see to these two," said Lyanna, as her brother exited the chamber. "I'll see you in the morning. There's a council meeting planned."

Not long after Lord Stark left with Arya, Jon and Sansa also set aside their cutlery. They were all ready to call it a night and it was getting later. Out of the long, stained glass window, Jon could see the moon and all the stars lighting up the night sky. The way back to their private rooms was through the Queen's chamber of presence, where Lyanna received important guests on royal business and diplomats from overseas. To Jon's surprise, there was even a man waiting to be received now.

He was roughly thirty, or a little older, and sitting on a chair against the wall deep in conversation with Jeyne Poole, of all people. He was tall and lean, with one long leg casually crossed over the other. But when the Queen entered, Jeyne's undoubtedly scintillating conversation was abruptly cut off. He stood up and bowed low to the Queen with a distinctive glitter in his blue eyes.

"Your Grace," he addressed Lyanna.

"Lord Ashford, how nice to see you," Lyanna replied. "What are you up to now?"

Jon looked between his aunt and Lord Ashford, noticing that her smile had become fixed and he looked determined.

"I'm not up to anything," he replied, innocently. "Lady Jeyne and I were just discussing your royal magnificence-"

"Oh, stop it," she chided. "And stop boring my poor maids to death with wildly exaggerated tales of your valour and courage, please. Good maids are hard to find in this part of town."

On the contrary, however, both Sansa and Jeyne flushed deeply as they gazed up at the newcomer, as though they were enchanted. Jon hid his irritation and stepped up to the Queen's side to get a better look at Lord Ashford. Like all visitors to the Queen's household, his longsword had been left with the stewards on the door, and just wore an empty scabbard at his hip. It bore the arms of House Tyrell, to whom the Ashford's were sworn.

"In all seriousness, I just returned from Ashford Castle," he said, oblivious to the simpering girls. "Yoren from the Night's Watch met up with my company on the road from Horn Hill and he wanted me to tell you he got Benjen's message and can he have a look in the dungeons tomorrow morning?"

Jon felt a prickle of regret at the mentioning of the Night's Watch; an unexpected reminder of the dream he had given up to come south with his aunt. He wished he could jump on Yoren's cart and head back north again, right now. The Queen merely looked perplexed.

"Of course he can; I did say to Ben to tell him to help himself," she replied. "Did Yoren have much success in Horn Hill? I cannot imagine Randyll Tarly being too generous."

Lord Ashford's brow raised slightly, torn between amusement and shock. "On the contrary, old Tarly was more than generous. He donated his eldest son to the Brothers."

Lyanna gasped. "Whatever for?"

Ashford shrugged. "From what I can gather, because he's fat and useless."

"Oh, the poor boy!" Lyanna retorted. "Tarly is an ass, he always has been."

"A powerful and intimidating ass, all the same," Ashford pointed out. "I've seen him beat that boy senseless to try and toughen him up. Instead, he just terrified him even more."

Lyanna made a sympathetic noise before turning back to Jon, Sansa and Jeyne. "Excuse me, Lord Ashford, the children are tired."

"Of course," replied the Lord. "And forgive me, I met Jeyne of course, but this must be Lady Sansa and Jon?"

"Yes, my niece and nephew. Ser Barristan Selmy is taking charge of Jon's martial training in the morning and he has to be up early; Sansa will be staying with me."

Lord Ashford turned to Jon and held out his hand in greeting. "There's none better than Ser Barristan, Jon. I might come down myself, actually. I wouldn't mind seeing old Barristan in action again."

After the brief introduction, Jon found himself being led away again. Beyond exhausted, he no longer had the strength to be nervous about the next morning. They escorted Sansa and Jeyne first, then Jon. Once he was back in his chambers, he flopped down on the edge of his bed to pull off his boots.

"Aunty?" he asked, mid-way through extracting a boot. "Why does Lord Tarly really hate his son?"

Lyanna had reached the door, when she stopped and turned back. "I cannot say," she replied, sadly. "But it's not just the North that breeds hard men."

"What's his name?" he asked, curious.

"The son?" asked the Queen, thoughtfully. "Samwell, I think."

She returned to him and kissed the top of his head. "Don't be sad. Go to sleep or you'll be late in the morning."

With that, she left and Jon was alone again. But despite the words of his aunt, he couldn't help but pity the son of Randyll Tarly. There was nothing worse than being stuck with a parent who hates you, but at least he could escape to the North. A whole new family awaited him there. He resolved to write to Benjen and make sure someone was watching over the new recruit.

* * *

><p>Resisting the urge to leave Lord Ashford standing around the presence chamber, Lyanna opted to remain at least friendly. She re-entered, resolving to get the audience over with as soon as possible and will mildly disappointed to find him still there. Waiting for her. In the absence of young women to milk for information, he had taken to studying a painting on the wall as though it may have developed the capacity for speech.<p>

"Owain," she said, reverting to his first name. "How did you find the Free Cities?"

He turned from the portrait to meet her gaze across the room. Now that the children were gone and it was just the two of them, his demeanour had changed. He had taken off his jacket and she could see that he had lost weight on his travels. But he was still strong looking; just worn down with tiredness, like everyone else that night.

"How many of my dispatches did you get?" he asked, resuming the seat he was in when they found him with Jeyne. "I would have been sending them without realising you were gone."

Lyanna smarted at the note in accusation in his tone. "Robert gave me no warning, Owain. It was a surprise; a lovely surprise that I was hardly going to turn down. But I know you found Mormont, I was just discussing it with Lord Stark."

Lord Ashford drew a deep breath as he leaned back in his seat. Lyanna refused to sit and remained standing over him so he had to crane his neck to see her properly.

"So you didn't just send me away on another pointless embassy," he stated, flatly. "That's something, at least. But I only found the Targaryens by following Mormont. I guess you know about the wedding?"

Lyanna nodded. "I do. And I do not send you away to spite you, My Lord. But…"

"But?" he asked, expression falling. "You're sending me away again, aren't you? Where now? Another marriage?"

"Yes, but not yours," she retorted, tartly. "We already know about the wedding of the Targaryen girl and the Khal because Mormont is informing on her-"

"Lyanna!" he cut in, sharply. He pressed his hands together, long fingers intertwining. "Say the word and I will bring you Mormont's head and lay it at your feet. Just say the word."

"No! Just think about it, you fool!" she shot back. "He's informing on her in return for a pardon, but it's also a way for us to keep track of her and make sure she stays safe. The only reason I trust Robert not to harm them is because now he's got both me and Ned breathing down his neck about them. But it might not be enough to stop others."

She relented and sat down in the Jeyne's recently vacated seat. Meanwhile, Lord Ashford looked at her curiously, she could feel his gaze boring in to her somewhere just above the bodice.

"As for Robert: does that malignant mountain of flesh truly make you happy?" he asked, at length.

"Do you know, my lord, its questions like that that compel me to send you on foreign embassies in the first place," she replied, sternly. "In fact, it was a roughly similar question that saw you being hastily married off to that cousin of Mace Tyrell's. Don't make me do it again now that you're a widow."

He dropped his head into his hands, kneading at the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. But every time you send me away-"

"Don't finish that sentence," she instructed. "Just stop now. I am married. Married to a man who would have your head on a spike if you so much as looked twice at me. Remember why Robert is King, Owain. Remember it well."

He sighed deeply. "So, where is my next sentence of exile to be carried out? You want me to crash the new Khaleesi's wedding?"

"Not in so many words," she replied. "Just see if you can pick up information. I want the movements of the Khalasar tracked. Watch Mormont and intercept any orders for assassins that may be passing back and forth – he's bound to be up to something."

Ashford frowned. "You trust me with all that; yet you don't trust me enough to tell me why you care so much about them?"

"Because I pity them," she stated, crisply. "As I pity you."

"I'll do it," he said. "I'll do it, because I'll do anything for you. But you can keep your pity, Your Grace."

The audience ended there, as Lord Ashford snatched up his doublet from the back of the chair and left. The door slammed after him, echoing back into silence. He had been gone for over a year on her business, and this would take another year yet. She hated doing it, but she wanted him out of her sight, whatever that took.

* * *

><p>The yard was empty the following morning. Jon's nerves had awoken along with him, ferocious at having been suppressed during the hours of sleep. In a perfect mirroring of his mood, Ghost prowled restively in a wide circle around him; occasionally weaving between his legs and snapping his great maws at any stray kitchen cat that dared to approach. The Direwolf had grown; if he stood on his hind legs he was taller than Jon himself. Out there, the sun beat down on them and it made Jon wonder whether the wolf was too hot, or if he really was reflecting the master's mood.<p>

There was just one other sign of life in the yard: a large cart drawn by an old shire horse. A group of rowdy boys all dressed in rags were piled on to the back. They hollered and grunted amongst themselves, seemingly throwing rocks at each other for fun. Ghost didn't like them either. He drew to a halt at Jon's side, lowered to his haunches and his ears pressed back flat against his head as he engaged in his strange, silent growls.

"Ghost, to me," he said, clicking his fingers.

Jon squatted at the direwolf's side and ruffled his fur to distract him from the increasingly noisy crowd.

"Hey," he said. "Ignore them."

Red eyes turned and met his own, calming slightly.

"And I want you to stay out of my dreams," said Jon.

Once more, his night had been broken by dreams of Ghost. This time, Lady and Nymeria had been there too and they were searching for Grey Wind, Summer and Shaggydog. The three of them were howling for their lost brothers, confused and angry when no one answered their calls.

"Oh, there he is. Jon!"

He got up and whirled round at the sound of the Queen's voice. She, his father and the man from the Presence Chamber were sweeping down the stone steps that led into the Courtyard. Clearly, all three were in a hurry.

"Where are you going?" he asked, raising his voice.

"Wait here for us," his father instructed. Once they were together, Lord Stark elaborated properly. "We're only letting Yoren into the dungeons. Stay here."

"I'll be back with Ser Barristan in ten minutes, don't go anywhere," Lyanna added as she and her friend swept past. She stopped to rub Ghost's ears, while her friend deftly dodged out of the wolf's way.

"All right," he said to his father. "But I'm nervous."

"Don't be," said Lord Stark, then he too joined the Queen. "Gods, that's a rowdy lot Yoren's collected up so far!"

He watched as they all vanished round the corner of the Keep, a trail of chatter fading into the distance as they went. To kill time, he retrieved his sword from where it had been left propped against a wall. With the sword in his hands, he felt a little calmer. Like he had a purpose to waiting around a near empty courtyard. But an increase in the shouting from the recruits reminded him sharply that he was not entirely alone.

He turned to watch them, just as something large and bulky was kicked off the end of the cart. Smaller boys leaped down after it and started hitting it with a wooden sparring stick. That same large, bulky something started emitting high pitched squeals, sobbing noisily as the blows continued to land on his back and head. The tension of his nerves clashed violently with rising anger as Jon strode across the yard.

"Hey!" he shouted, even though he knew he would not be heard. "Hey! Leave him alone!"

His sword was drawn and the scabbard thrown into the dust before he could even think about it. Ghost stalked at his side, teeth bared in animal fury. Fire's blade shimmered sweetly in the morning sunshine, thirsting for blood.

"I said leave that boy alone!" Jon shouted furiously as he reached them. "Pick on someone who can fight back, you cravens!"

Only close up did Jon realise it was eight against one. The fat boy on the ground remained curled up like hedgehog under attack and hopes faded of help coming from there. Nevertheless, the boys leapt back from the swing of Jon's sword and he managed to knock the wooden stick from one's hand. Then Ghost leapt into the fray, sending the fighters scattering like leaves on an autumn breeze.

"Run!" he bellowed at the fallen fat boy. "By Gods, will you run!"

"I-I-I-I.." he stammered so hard his chins wobbled, still curled up on the floor. "I can't!"

While Jon had his back turned, the Night's Watch recruits had grown bold and one tried to jump him from the top of the cart. Far too slight to take them all on, Jon was instantly dragged to the ground and set upon by the others. But Ghost once more leapt into the fray, snapping his massive jaws around the leg of the boy who pulled Jon down and dragging him backwards. Suddenly, the air was filled with his screams. Jon had dropped fire and had to resort to using his fists, lashing out until other voices cut through the melee angrily.

"What in seven hells do you think you're doing?"

For the final time, the fight was broken up. Jon could taste blood on his lip and his knees hurt from where he had fallen. Then rough hands dragged him back to his feet; he was dealt a sharp smack to the back of his thighs courtesy of one of the dropped sparring sticks.

"Ouch!" he yelped, finding himself face to face with his father.

Lord Stark was incandescent. "You were not brought up to go brawling in the streets like a drunk."

"The boy can certainly fight! Eight against One!"

The words were spoken by a much older man Jon hadn't noticed before. With shame, he realised it was his new instructor.

"Aye, a great first impression, Jon," said his father.

"But they all ganged up on the fat boy!" Jon protested, desperately. "I swear it, father. All of them!"

Lord Stark gave him a sharp shove in the small of the back, towards the wall lining the back of the yard. "Go and wait over there, we'll talk about it later."

Jon drew a deep, steadying breath and did as he was told. He retrieved his sword and skulked off towards the wall, Ghost followed him with his tail between his legs. But, as he went, Jon noticed the fat boy had vanished.

"Anybody see where Ser Piggy went?" a skinny old man in black demanded of the courtyard at large.

Jon spun around to face the adults again. "I'll get him, I think he went that way."

"Let him, Lord Stark, your son saw everything," said the man from the Queen's presence chamber.

"Very well, Lord Ashford," said Ned. "Go on, son."

Relieved, Jon set off towards them ignoring the pain at the back of his thigh. As he passed Lord Ashford, however, he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, bringing him to a halt. Ashford leaned in close and whispered directly in his ear: "The spectator stands; hide him in the Dragon vaults."

Jon smirked, but gave no other indication that he had heard anything before running for the stands in the next yard. It was where public tournaments were held and the jousts took place. Jon could see it himself, but he had no idea of how to access the vaults. But he would leave that for later. For now, he needed to find the fat boy. A task made easier by his quivering bulk clearly visible between the wooden steps in the list yard.

"Hey you," said Jon.

The other boy cried in alarm.

"Ssh!" Jon shot back, finger to his lips. "They'll hear you! Now come with me."

He knelt on one of the lower seats and extended a hand through the gap in the platform. "Take it," he said. "I helped you, remember. You can trust me."

But the other boy's eyes showed nothing but fear and distrust. It was the look of a boy who had been spat on and mocked all his life. He shrank back from Jon's hand as though it may burn him; trembling violently as he went. His face was black and blue from where the other boys had attacked him. Great, blossoming bruises of purple and blue. His lip was split, too. A thin trail of blood seeping through his teeth.

"I know a girl who can help you," Jon promised him. "Her name's Fritha, but everyone just calls her Frith. She's lovely; you'll like her."

"You-you'll send me back to those boys," stammered the boy. "They'll kill me for sure, now."

"I won't, now come on!" Jon retorted, growing impatient. All the trouble he got himself into would come to nothing if they remained there. "But my father will kill me for that fight, now come on or my death will be in vain." Jon paused for breath. "You're Samwell, aren't you? Lord Tarly's son."

His arm was growing numb and he was slipping down the stands, making him hope that this would soon be over. But the boy nodded, confirming his name.

"I'm Jon – Ned Stark's bastard. The one with no mother. So come with me and we can be scorned together." Jon smiled, eliciting the same in the other boy. He nodded, reached out his hand and grasped Jon's firmly. Back on their feet, they ran for their lives.

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><p><strong>Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute to spare. Thank you.<strong>

**Just a quick note about my OC Lord Owain Ashford. There is a House Ashford and a Castle Ashford in the books, located in the Reach (near High Garden), but the line is extinct and they don't seem to have played any significant role in anything. So I have created this guy from scratched and hitched him onto House Ashford so the introduction of this OC doesn't mess about with real, actual characters. I'll soon be adding a full bio of him to my profile page.**


	10. Underdogs

**I want to thank everyone who has read this story, especially those who have taken the time to leave reviews and feedback. Thank you! I hope you all survived the Great Outage.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Ten: Underdogs<strong>

They couldn't run far. Every so often Jon had to stop to let Sam catch him up. Delays that meant those hunting Sam down were closing in on them. Impatiently, Jon chivvied him along and tried to steer him into large crowds of people, hoping they would just blend in and not be noticed. But everywhere they went, the sight of Sam's lumbering and breathless form seemed to draw the mocking eyes of every passer-by.

"Just ignore them and try to keep up," he found himself repeating, over and over.

Ghost led the way, easily cutting a path through the throngs of people who seemed to populate the entire Castle. All the way out to the back of the Keep, where the kitchens were located in a separate building within a quadrangle. They stopped to catch their breath and get their bearings before entering the kitchens properly. The yard they were in was connected to the Court via a network of underground tunnels that led to the Great Hall and Throne Rooms. From there, the servants could access all private apartments, except the royal apartments – who were served by their own private caterers.

Propped against the wall of kitchen hall, Sam was almost doubled over and still gasping for air. The parts of his face that weren't bruised had now turned bright red from the exertion. Once he had composed himself, he looked more worried than before.

"What's wrong now?" asked Jon.

"But it's the kitchens," he replied. "It'll be the first place they look for me!"

Jon rolled his eyes. "Then let's hope we've already missed them."

The interior of the great kitchen was vast. Lit by large oriel windows; the whitewashed walls were lined with huge stone ovens. Over those ovens, the walls were black with heat and soot, all the way up to the high beamed ceiling. Heat enveloped Jon and Sam in a great, damp cloud of steam and smoke. As soon as they were through the doors, they found themselves suddenly getting under the feet of at least twenty other people. The air was filled with shouts and orders; commands barked out by red faced stewards and cooks. As the crowds of cooks and servants parted, Jon caught sight of small boys turning long spits of chicken carcasses over roaring fires. The smell of blood, sweat and meat almost stuck to the pores of their skins.

A ruddy-cheeked and broad armed sweeper tried to brush them back out of the door they had just walked through, as though they were last night's rushes. Panicked, Jon tried to get her attention.

"Please, mistress, I'm looking for someone," he said. "A new girl who started yesterday."

By the time he got the sentence out, the sweeper had succeeded in sweeping them back outside again. But she stopped and squinted down at Jon as though she's had only just seem him. Pale blue eyes swept over the Direwolf sigil stitched onto the front pocket of his doublet. Recognising the Queen's own house sigil, the sweeper gasped.

"So sorry my lord," she blustered, attempting a curtsey with her tattered pinafore smock. "How may I be of service to your lordship?"

Such deference still made him feel acutely self-conscious; a failing he had to overcome quickly for the sake on expedience.

"I need to find Fritha, the new girl," he blurted out again. But as he cast a glance around the vast rooms, it was a wonder anyone noticed new faces at all. "She's short and skinny and has blond hair. She's from the Riverlands, do you know her?"

To his dismay, the woman's face was blank. "Can't say I do, your lordship. But come with me and I'll find her for you."

She led them both through the kitchens and out into the confectionary house, where they could wait in peace. The specialist cooks who populated these rooms wouldn't be starting their work until late in the afternoon, meaning it was currently empty and mercifully cool. Once their helper had vanished out into the main kitchen again, Jon and Sam were alone. They sat at the wide trestle table set in the middle of the room, facing each other.

"This feels better," said Sam, finally breathing freely. "No one will look in here for me, will they?"

Jon ignored that as he thought back to the fight in the yard. "Why didn't you defend yourself back there?" he asked, brow creasing into a frown. "You could have flattened most of those other boys, why didn't you?"

For the first time, Jon was able to get a proper look at Sam. The relief in his face opened his expression, but as soon as Jon brought up the fight he changed again. Shoulders hunched and his expression closing like shutters falling over a shop front. He withdrew back into his shell like a snail under attack.

"I can't," he replied, defeated. "I never have been able to. I just can't fight. I can't do anything. Just ask my father – if you ever have the misfortune to meet him."

Jon's gaze fell onto Sam's huge fists. "But why?" he asked again. "Just one punch and you'd have sent them flying over the castle walls."

"I'm fat, Jon. I'm not strong. All this you're seeing, it's pure blubber," he replied, flatly. "And underneath all this is a core of cowardice."

Although he wanted to say more, Jon held his tongue as Sam's eyes filled with tears. Whatever he said, he could see he was only rubbing salt into wounds that were already open and raw. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel worse."

Sam merely shrugged. "You didn't make me feel worse. I was like this already."

Jon was spared the agony of a reply by the sound of feet hurrying up to the door. Sam almost ducked under the table in fright, but it was only Fritha, who had been located in the vegetable garden. Her smock was smeared with dirt and she had a streak of orange peeling stuck in her hair, under her coif. She closed the door behind her and looked from Jon to Sam and back again, questioningly. Jon got up and hurriedly introduced them.

"Frith, this is Sam; Sam, this is Frith," he said, then turned back to the girl in direct appeal. "We really need your help."

"Gods, Jon, what have you done?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Nothing!" he retorted, defensively. "Much. Anyway, all I need you to do is find a kitchen livery for Sam and look after him for a few days."

He was met with silence while Fritha continued looking between them with her hands on her hips.

"You want me to hide him," she finally replied. "And if I'm hiding him, that means he's on the run from someone."

"It's not like that, honest. We just need to keep him hidden from the Night's Watch man," said Jon. "Look at him, Frith. He's terrified; he can't join the Night's Watch, they'll kill him. As soon as Yoren from the Night's Watch is gone, take him to the Dragon's Vault then I'll do the rest."

Jon turned to Sam, to see if he would speak up for himself. But he shrank back on the bench, looking up at Fritha appealingly. Still, he remained silent; not even defending himself with words. Jon could almost despair of him. Fritha sighed deeply as she let her arms fall to her sides.

"Of course I'll help," she said, at length. "There's liveries in the laundry round the back. I just hope there's one that fits." She turned to Sam. "You can wash and peel veg, can't you?"

Sam even looked dubious about that. "It can't be that hard, can it?"

"Don't worry, I'll teach you myself," she said, lighting up in a bright smile. "We always need help, wherever it comes from. Just wait here and I'll be back with a livery."

They both thanked her, deeply relieved, as she left the room again. Jon sat back down, grateful that something was finally going right, even if Sam was still full of doubt.

"What about after Yoren's gone?" he asked. "I can't go home; my father will kill me. He'll have me spit roasted and fed to the dogs."

In reality, Jon had no idea. "I'll speak to the Queen. She's my aunt and I know she'll help," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "I'll get her to let you stay here, with us."

Finally, he elicited a tremulous smile from the other boy.

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><p>Lyanna checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothing down her skirts and arranging a satin shawl around her shoulders. She had left her brother to chair the morning's meeting of the Small Council alone, not realising that the morning's training session had been postponed in spectacular style after Jon decided to take on the Night's Watch in a fight. For what it was worth, she had agreed with Ser Barristan's assessment that Jon really did know how to fight. However, not everyone was impressed.<p>

"I don't know why my Lord Father insisted on bringing him down here," said Sansa, to Jeyne Poole. "He behaved liked the bastard he is and shamed us all."

The two girls were chatting amongst themselves beside an open window that looked out over the bay. Lyanna turned from the mirror, fixing her niece with a sharp-eyed look.

"Lady Sansa, you cannot possibly think that standing by and watching someone be beaten to a pulp by a gang of bullies is an honourable thing to do," she said, keeping her tone even. "Is it not part of the Knight's code to defend those who are weaker, vulnerable and unable to defend themselves?"

Sansa at least had the decency to blush. "Yes, your grace, but Jon was using his fists. Like a drunken brawler in a horrible tavern. That is not honourable."

"He had lost his sword and was being set on by eight other boys," Lyanna pointed out. "He had no choice."

"Noble people still don't make such public spectacles of themselves. I bet you wouldn't, Your Grace."

Despite her growing irritation, Lyanna suddenly smiled and sat down between the two girls. She sat with her back to the window, on the silk cushions that covered the bench there and let the sun warm her. She turned to Sansa, flashing her a grin.

"I don't mean to boast, ladies," she said. "But, on the contrary, I have done that before and I like to think I would do it again."

Sansa's eyes opened as wide as saucers, looking back at the Queen agape. "But you're the Queen."

Lyanna shrugged. "Not back then, I wasn't," she replied. "You've heard of the Tourney of Harrenhal, haven't you? And I'm sure your father has mentioned Lord Howland Reed before. Even though Howland is your father's age, he's no taller than you girls and about as strong. I saw him being bullied by a group of drunken squires. All them piling onto one tiny man. So I did what I like to think anyone would have done: went in with a sword drawn and fought them off. Just put yourself in the victim's shoes, and maybe then you'll begin to understand."

At least Jeyne looked impressed. But she had also been deeply impressed with Jon; hence Sansa's scathing assessment of the situation. Lyanna, however, remembered only what it was like to have a sword in her hands and know how to use it. She had been fearless, once. Danger drew her like a moth to a flame, always dancing closer to the fire. It was only ever a matter of time before she got burned.

"Anyway, enough chatter," she said, briskly. "I want to see Jon's first training session."

The three of them swept from the room in a perfume of rosewater and trailing silks. Outside, they were joined by Lyanna's chief Lady, Ysilla Royce, who had been in her household since the day she first became Queen. All through those first two long, dark years of her reign, when she was grieving for Rhaegar, aching for Jon and torn with guilt over marrying Robert; Ysilla had unwittingly been by her side. Formality between them had long since melted away and they greeted each other with a kiss and a brief hug of which Sansa, no doubt, thoroughly disapproved.

As they walked through the castle together, Jeyne Poole looked up at the Queen admiringly. "I hope Jon wins," she said. "I bet he will."

"Really?" replied the Queen. "How much?"

Although meant as a jest, Ysilla's interest had been peaked too. "Oh, are we running a book? I'll put a silver dragon on the opposition victory. Sorry, Queenie, but your nephew is an untried boy."

Feeling daring, the Queen met the challenge. "I'll raise you a gold dragon on Jon's victory. Sansa and Jeyne, I'll pay your bets girls."

"Blood is blood," said Sansa, earning a smile from the Queen even if they lost their bets. "One silver dragon on Jon's victory."

It seemed that almost everyone loved an underdog as Jeyne also staked a silver dragon on Jon emerging as the afternoon's victor. In high spirits, the group of women emerged onto the courtyard where training was due to commence, finding Lord Stark and Ser Barristan Selmy already there. Even King Robert had graced them with his presence as he took a place up on the stands to watch over proceedings. By now, even the rowdy Night's Watch recruits had been shifted to another part of the castle where Yoren could scour the dungeons without having to return to break up fights. Lyanna was relieved at the removal of the distraction.

"Ladies, go and take your seats. Lord Stark is over with the King and I'll join you in a minute," she said, before setting off towards Selmy.

"Ser Barristan," she greeted him. "Who is the opponent?"

They stood side by side and looked out over the empty practise yard. The sun was still high in the sky, turning the beaten earth ground golden. It would be hard underfoot, and dusty into the bargain. But Jon could turn it to his own advantage yet.

"I thought I might do it myself," he replied. "I only want to see what he's learned so far."

"What? Oh!" Lyanna retorted, realising the match was about to cost her a small fortune. "Well, wouldn't it be better if you could observe Jon fighting from a distance? I mean, you can watch from a better perspective, can't you?"

Ser Barristan turned from the ground to look at her. "I'll go easy on him, Your Grace. I promise."

"It's not that I'm worried," she was quick to point out. "I just want what's best for Jon."

The older Knight thought on it for a second. "If Your Grace has someone in mind?"

Lyanna felt her heartbeat quicken in triumph. "Actually," she replied. "I do. Just hold on until I bring him back."

With that, she called to Ysilla to accompany her back into the castle.

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><p>Jon was running late. By the time Fritha found a livery that fit Sam another hour had passed; then he wanted to remain and make sure the other boy was as settled as he could be in his new 'job'. Mercifully, washing and peeling vegetables was not in the least intimidating and Sam took to it readily under Fritha's gentle tutelage. But it was still passed high noon by the time Jon was running back to the court yard where he was supposed to be in training.<p>

He dodged through crowds of people once more, running full pelt to the other side of the Red Keep. Through the network of draughty corridors and down the steep stone steps to the practise yard, where he ran headlong into his father. Lord Stark managed to catch hold of him and steady him before he fell.

"Careful, Jon," said Ned as he squatted down to speak with him on a level. "Now, are you ready for this?"

He managed a nervous nod. "I think so."

Lord Stark drew a deep breath and kept his hands on Jon's shoulders for encouragement. "Remember, it's not a real fight so don't be too worried. Don't grip the sword handle too tight; don't attack straight from the off – let your opponent make the first move and defend yourself first. It's not a race, so don't rush."

If he looked over his father's head, he could see the King and the Queen's women all occupying the stands. Ser Barristan Selmy himself was pacing the side lines of the yard like a restless lion on the prowl.

"Why is everyone watching?" he asked. "I didn't know there would be spectators."

The thought of it horrified him. People had watched their sparring back in Winterfell, but this felt different. This was him being pushed to the next level at a time when he had no idea whether he was even ready. Now, it was all to be played out in front of a small audience of the royal household. Even Lord Ashford was there, chatting to Sansa and Jeyne Poole. Luckily, no one had noticed his arrival, except for his father.

"Don't think about them," he advised. "You keep your back to the stands and you won't even see them. Forget about them."

Again, he managed a shaky nod. "Father, what if I get knocked out and everyone laughs at me?"

Ned suppressed a laugh of his own. "That's not going to happen. We just want to see you fight; not get humiliated. Now come on; we'll get you kitted out."

Jon followed his father to a place beneath the stands where his sword and breastplate were stacked against the walls. Squires were already on hand to help him prepare. But the longer the wait went on, the more nervous he became. Ratcheting up the tension even more was the sounds from above, of the feet of even more spectators arriving. It made him irritable to wonder what the big attraction could possibly be. How was he supposed to forget the crowds when it turned out to be the great multitudes of Westeros stopping by to gawp?

"Father!" he moaned. "How many people are out there? Why do they care?"

Lord Stark handed Jon his sword, Fire. "My guess is they just want to see old Ser Barristan in action again. He's legendary in his own lifetime, you know that."

Ned fixed his son's breastplate in place and ruffled his hair before turning to the wrist guards and gauntlets. Although Jon could see the truth in the words, it only made him more edgy. When the fanfare sounded, he breathed a sigh of relief as he turned to look at his father.

"You'll be there, won't you?" he asked. Jon couldn't have cared less if the multitudes had turned up; the only person he cared about was his father. So long as he was there, he knew he would be just fine, in the end.

Lord Stark squatted down again, placing one hand at the back of Jon's neck and looked him in the eye. Grey on grey. "I'll be there with you every step of the way. I promise. Now get out there."

Jon managed to sketch a tremulous smile as he re-emerged onto the open courtyard. Following his father's advice and kept his back to the crowd that had gathered and focused his attention firmly on the open yard. The sight that greeted him there was hardly any less nerve wracking. His opponent was already there, fully armoured. The other man was tall, wearing ringmail and breastplate. Tall and slim, his gauntleted hands were resting casually on the hilt of his longsword. The metal glimmering in the afternoon sun, from helm to booted feet. He stood looking at Jon through his visor in total silence as the crowds settled.

Pages standing at the edge of the yard dropped the starter's flag and the fight began in earnest. Jon drew his own sword, mentally blocking out the noise now starting to grow from the stands, like a steadily increasing buzz of angry bees. Before the first move was made, Jon clung to his father's final words of advice and let the other man make the first attack. But in practise, letting his bigger, stronger and more experienced opponent make that first move was the most daunting thing he had ever had to do.

For what seemed like an age, they circled each other like two fighting lions. Each silently daring the other to attack. Then, on a surge of triumph, Jon took the initiative and feigned an attack to draw the other man into the fight by deliberately overplaying one hand. It worked, and Jon soon found himself defending against an attack from the side by parrying from the left. The two swords clashed and scraped against each other before Jon was able to gain the upper hand and throw the other man off. He reeled back, almost over-balancing but soon righted himself before coming straight back at Jon with another attack, which he once again successfully parried.

Although the crowd began to call out, Jon barely heard them now. As the heat of the sparring match began to build, his focus sharpened on his opponent to the point where it soon felt as though they were the last two people alive. Even the sound of Sansa and Jeyne, shrill above everyone else's, didn't distract him as he lunged into an attack of his own. But the slice of his blade was parried with ease as the two blades locked into each other again. Then the Knight suddenly gained the upper hand as he began to force Jon backwards.

"Don't give an inch," he murmured to himself. "Don't give an inch."

But he was giving ground. He brought it to an end with a long leap sideways, where he hit the ground and to pull off a quick backwards roll to get back on his feet and take back the ground he had lost. But as soon as he was back on his feet, he relaxed his grip on the sword and brought it up to chest height, ready to defend once more as the two of them circled one another. The Knight he was up against mirrored his defensive stance, sword crossed over his chest as he once more closed in on Jon, striking suddenly.

"Come on, Jon!" Jeyne's voice called out across the stands. "Winter is coming!"

As pleased as he was that he had re-awoken some northern pride in the girls, Jon had to keep focused on his opponent. The fight progressed, with ground gained and lost. Attacked followed attack and it seemed as though they were equals. Until suddenly, the Knight went into retreat after one of Jon's most daring advances yet. Emboldened and assured of victory, Jon performed the same move again, bringing a cheer from the Northerners in the stands. Again and again, Jon gained ground as the Knight retreated, almost touching the side lines to grant him victory.

He had almost won the fight when the Knight dropped to his knees in the dust. Jon allowed himself just a fraction of a second to get his breath back, but it was a moment the Knight seized full of advantage of as he sprang upwards with a simultaneous slash of his longsword that sent Jon's spinning out of his hand. He cried out in shock as he realised the Knight had been feigning all along.

Disarmed and at the Knight's mercy; Jon fell to his knees at his feet. Panting from exhaustion, Jon looked up into the helmed face of the victor. The edge of the Knight's blade was pressed, cool and sharp, into the soft flesh at the base of his throat. He was on his knees and defeated; the crowds fell silent once more.

"I yield," he panted, squinting against the afternoon sun.

With his free hand, still encased in a gauntlet, the Knight pulled off his helm. A tumble of dark hair fell from beneath, a long braid laced with glittering silver threads. Queen Lyanna let the helm fall into the dust as she looked down at him kneeling before her.

"It it's any consolation, Jon," she said, breathless but grinning from ear to ear. "This victory has cost me my own bet."

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><p><strong>Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be greatly appreciated, if you have the time. <strong>


	11. Spiders and Dragons

**Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story and especially those who have taken time to leave comments and reviews. Thank you!**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter Eleven: Spiders and Dragons<strong>

"It's already dead, Jon. Stop stabbing it."

He froze with his hand still gripping the handle of his knife, the blade still sunk into a fat slice of beef, and sighed heavily. All through his silent, stilted meal the Queen had been making repeated efforts to initiate conversation with him. Now, his sigh was met with a single raised brow as Lyanna reached for her glass of wine. Maintaining his silence, Jon met her gaze defiantly; silently challenging her. To what, he did not know. _'She won't win, this time,'_ he thought to himself.

"Are you actually going to eat that?"

Jon responded by pushing his plate away, sending it skidding a few inches across the table where it collided with a vase of flowers. Pointedly, he looked away from the Queen and fixed his gaze on a corner of the room, where one of her cats was licking its front paw. Once the animal had finished preening itself, it looked up and met Jon's gaze with a mocking look in its sharp, emerald eyes. Like even it had witnessed the sparring match and, in its imperious judgement, found Jon wanting. He dearly wished to swear at it. It had been two days since the fight, and still Jon seethed. Lyanna, realising that their private dinner was swiftly going nowhere, dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

Still in high dudgeon, he set off through the castle heading for the kitchens. Even there, he found no respite. Frith was in her usual place, uprooting vegetables from what was fast becoming her own personal patch of garden. But she was alone, save for two skinny boys who normally turned the spits. She stood up, wiping her muddy hands down the front of her pinafore. Her father was a tenant farmer back in the Riverlands, so she was used to working the land.

"Sam's down the dragon vault," she informed him. "Yoren left this morning, so it was safe for him to leave the kitchens."

Inwardly, Jon kicked himself. He had seen them leave himself, while he was training under the watchful eye of Barristan Selmy.

"Do you know how to get there?"

He was meant to ask the Queen, but that was before the sparring match and his humiliating defeat.

Frith nodded. "There's something I want to bring him, actually. Wait there; we can go together."

His miasma lifted enough for a ray of gratitude to slant through, as he thanked her and followed her to the door of the main kitchen building. She disappeared inside, but only for a moment and reappeared with a wicker basket on her arm. Its contents shrouded beneath a white linen cloth. As promised, they set off together through the grounds of the castle, heading for a flight of stone steps that led beneath the ground floor.

"Thanks again, Frith," said Jon, as they made their descent. "I know you risked a lot to hide Sam."

But Fritha smiled, cheerful as always. "Nothing of it. Sam promised to teach me how to read and write, as a way of repaying the debt."

It hadn't occurred to him that Fritha was illiterate before and he had to school his reaction carefully. Luckily for him, they were descending into a subterranean vault was irregularly lit with flaming torches, only a few of which were still lit.

"I can help too," he offered. "I can get books from the library. My aunt won't mind."

She thanked him profusely as they reached a narrow passageway that led beneath the great hall of the keep. Still struggling to find his way around, it took Jon a full minute to get his bearings back. But he estimated they were close to the Tower of the Hand, where his father and Arya were lodged. When they reached the door of the vault, they had to work together to push it open on its rusty hinges. But, once it opened, it did so onto a wide, cavernous vault lined on either side with the most monstrous looking skulls he had ever seen.

Closest to them, near the entrance, were the smallest ones. Jon lifted a torch from a bracket on the wall of the outer-chamber and held up to the remains of the dragons. They were no bigger than dogs; smaller than Ghost. But as they walked slowly through the vault, the skulls grew rapidly larger. Straying from Frith's side, Jon held up the torch as he let his gaze linger over them. The bones were nothing like the dull, sun bleached animal bones left on roadsides. The dragon skulls shone in the light of the flame – almost absorbing it. The largest had teeth that were longer than him; where he could literally step into the oral cavity and still stand straight, if he so wished. He stepped closer to the one whose bones were like onyx; as though mesmerised, he reached out his free hand and touched it. Bone as smooth and strong as marble.

"Aren't they beautiful?"

Sam's voice startled Jon out of his reverie, almost making him drop the torch. He's been so lost among the dragon remains he had almost forgotten Fritha and Sam were in the vault with him. Jon felt more than a little guilty over his surprise that Sam was not afraid of the skulls. On the contrary, the larger boy's pale blues shone as he gazed at them, like they were the most beautiful things he had seen.

"Are they real?" asked Jon.

Sam laughed. "Of course they're real. This one must be Balerion the Dread." His gaze was directed to the onyx one. "Aegon rode him. Then there's Vhagar, Vinsenya's dragon. And Meraxes…" He seemed to know them all.

At the far end of the vault there was another stairwell that led to open ground. Sunlight spilled downwards, bringing with it fresh air and the distant sounds of people passing by. Curiously, Jon ventured up the first few steps to see what he could see. But he soon lost interest and returned to help Frith unpack the hamper she had brought down to Sam. First, they spread out Sam's own cloak – a black velvet one, given to him to take to the Castle Black. Fritha had procured cold meats, a wheel of cheese, fresh churned butter, a loaf of wheaten bread and a flagon of mead, which they arranged on the cloak.

Between the three of them, they shared what was there. Having sabotaged his own meal with the Queen, Jon also ate with them. It occurred to him, in that moment, that he had never really had proper friends before. His siblings did not count – they were blood, he thought Theon Greyjoy was an arrogant ass and it always as though the other boys at Winterfell were almost paid to be his friend. This was something new and different.

"If you stay angry with the Queen, can't she just cut your head off?" Fritha looked thoughtful as she directed her question at Jon.

"She almost did that in the sparring yard, anyway," he pointed out, gloomily. "And in front of everybody."

"I think she might make an exception for her own nephew," Sam pointed out. "Anyway, I don't see what all the fuss is about. So you got beaten by the Queen? It's not as if you could fight back at full force, was it? I mean, she's still the Queen."

"But I didn't know that," Jon retorted. "And the whole Court knows that I didn't know that. I can't say I just let her win because of who she is."

"Has anyone actually said anything to you?"

"They don't need to," he answered, miserably. "Everyone knows, and that's bad enough."

There had been snide looks; whispers behind hands as he passed through the corridors. Everyone had turned to look at him as he waited for his father in the Throne Room. He could imagine what they were saying and thinking, even if they didn't dare slander him to his face.

"I think she meant well," said Sam. "From what you've said about her, I think she really wants to get to know you. She spoke to you at Winterfell; gave you your new sword; took you on that tour of Harrenhal, let you ride with her in the royal carriage and you dine with her in her private chambers. You're even lodged within her household. What does that tell you?"

Lyanna had done a lot. Just for a moment, a twinge of guilt twisted in his gut and put him off his bread and cheese. He chewed on another mouthful all the same, but it began to taste as dry as parchment. Even Fritha looked at him strangely, now.

"I wish I had someone do all that for me," she said, wistfully. "My older brother and his wife will take over the farm now. I only came here to get out of their way."

"My father took singular pleasure in humiliating me in front of everyone on a daily basis," Sam interjected. "I hardly know what to do with myself now that he's not here. It's like the whole structure of my existence has bottomed out in the absence of ritual humiliation."

"Oh stop it, both of you," Jon snapped, irritably. "Neither of you understand."

The other two exchanged a knowing glance, irritating Jon even more.

Before long, Fritha had to return to work, leaving Jon and Sam alone with the remains of their food. The light spilling down the stairwell was beginning to weaken as the sun went down outside. Jon noted it, but was in no hurry to return to the Castle. It would be another evening listening to Sansa and Arya bicker, while he was left sitting in a corner and brooding over his failure in the yard. Sometimes, he wished he was still in Winterfell. He would never belong in the south.

"I better go, too. Her Highness will send out a search party if I'm late," he declared. "Do you want me to get anything?"

He noticed that Sam had set up a small bed inside the skull of Meraxes the ex-dragon. A pile of books was set nearby, alongside stubs of wax candles. He seemed happy enough with just that, so Jon took his leave. Deciding he wanted to know what was up the stairs, he went that way. He knew it must lead somewhere, Fritha had gone the same way when she left. Taking the steps two at a time, breathing in the dusty, dank air as he went, he couldn't escape the air of neglect that hung over the dragon vault and all the dead things contained within it. He would have to speak to the Queen again, he conceded, if only to get Sam out of there.

The gateway at the top of the stairs led out into cloisters that ran the length of a walled garden. Neatly trimmed lawns were bordered by a riotous colour of plants and flowers that heavily scented the warm dusk air, covering the open sewers that spilled into Blackwater Bay nearby. From what he had seen so far, it was a neat encapsulation for King's Landing as a whole: heavy handed perfumes covering the shit that simmered beneath the surface. As he left the porch that covered the entrance, he almost managed to collide with the sole other occupant of the garden. A large man he recognised from the King's Counsel; dressed in fine silks that skimmed the ground and radiating his own haze of heavy scents and perfumes. The setting sun shone off the dome of his bald head as he turned to look at Jon.

"Excuse me, Ser," he mumbled, hoping to dodge past the man uninterrupted. There was to be no such luck.

"The Queen was looking for you."

If Jon's sudden appearance in the other man's midst annoyed him, he showed no sign of it. His voice was soft and utterly untroubled. If anything, he regarded Jon with utmost curiosity.

"That's where I'm going now," he replied, uneasily.

"You remember me, of course, don't you?" the man asked.

One hand appeared from deep within his left sleeve; a sleeve dagged so low it was better suited to a lady's gown, stretching towards Jon. Instinctively, he shied back.

"Yes, I remember," he replied. It wasn't a lie altogether. He had seen the man talking to his father, as well. But Lord Stark never discussed the affairs of the realm with him or the girls, he preferred to leave his family time as just that. "I mustn't be late for Her Grace," he added, hastily.

To his dismay, the perfumed man followed him as he began walking down the gravel path. He didn't even know if he was going the right way and it would be beyond rude for him to simply run from the man. Even with the eye watering perfume as an excuse.

"I am sure Her Grace will not object to your talking to me," he said, smoothly. "In fact, it seems to me she would forgive you anything."

Jon glanced sidelong at him. "What?"

Not even Jon's brusque tone seemed to register with him.

"What I am saying is that she seems predisposed to you. And why ever not? You are her nephew, after all, and she has no children of her own."

Stopping dead in his tracks, Jon turned his face up to the other man's and looked him dead in the eye. "Then maybe she'll think twice before trying to kill me in front of the whole Court then."

The man's countenance was marred with the briefest flicker of discomfiture. "I heard what happened, of course, but I cannot abide violence in any form so did not actually witness it."

That, at least, made Jon feel a little happier. He set off down the path again, hoping it would lead out into the forecourt of the Keep. He could always ask this man, but he wanted this conversation to be short.

"Everything the Queen has given to you, she can take back in a trice. So make peace with your aunt, Jon Snow."

"I'm a Stark!" he retorted, hotly. "The Queen made me a…"

He trailed off mid-sentence, realising he was making the other man's point for him.

"Precisely," he said, still as smooth as whipped cream.

"But she wouldn't do that," said Jon. "She's not like that."

Before the man could answer, another voice cut over him.

"Jon!"

They both whipped round, both startled as Ser Barristan Selmy appeared from around the corner of the Keep. The sight of him brought a smile of relief to Jon's face. Briefly, he glanced up at the perfumed man and made his apologies.

"I've got to go, sorry," he said, wishing he could remember his name. "I'll think about what you said."

Without further ado, he jogged over to where Ser Barristan was waiting for him. The two of them, Ser Barristan and the perfumed one, exchanged a glance over Jon's head. The expression in Ser Barristan's face unreadable to Jon, but for the distrust that was there. As soon as he reached the Knight's side, he turned away without so much as a word to the other man.

"Who was that?" asked Jon, as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Varys, the Spider," replied Ser Barristan, keeping his voice low. "You be careful what you say to him. Only he knows who he's really working for." But then the old Knight's face lit up in an impish grin. "But if you ever see him and Petyr Baelish alone in a room together, be sure to stick around and watch them try to kill each other with a glance while attempting to sweet talk their own nebulous plots out of each other."

Jon looked back over his shoulder, but Varys was already out of sight.

* * *

><p>Lyanna watched from the mezzanine as the last of the petitioners filed from the Throne Room. Once the last person had left and the doors closed behind them, she walked from her discreet place and descended the stairs. Once on the ground floor again, she could see her brother properly for the first time, seated uncomfortably on the iron throne and stuffing a stack of parchments into a leather satchel. Ned did not notice her until she had begun climbing the steps to the throne. When he did, he regarded her with his <em>"I told you so,"<em> expression.

"Don't look at me like that, brother," she said, reaching the top of the steps.

Even after all these years she managed to continually snag the hems of her dress on the same jutting blade on the step second from the top. Without even looking, she tugged at it and ignored the resultant ripping noise. Aegon the Conqueror had cost her a fortune in tailor's bills over the years.

"I was on my way down," he informed her. "You didn't have to come all the way up here."

"Maybe I wanted to," she replied.

She positioned herself at the side of the throne, where she could look out over the empty room. Silent and shadowy, even the penetrating draughts seemed menacing at times like this. Still she regarded it all through narrowed eyes, settling over the spot where their father was burned alive, close to where their brother hanged himself as he struggled to reach a sword to free Lord Rickard. Neither of them had been there, but the past still sprang to life in her mind every time she came in here. Momentarily lost in her own imaginings, her hand curled around the edge of an old blade as she steadied herself. A sharp jolt of pain from its serrated edge knocking her back into the here and now. Stifling a curse, she wrapped her hand in her sleeve.

"I hate this throne," she said, bitterly. "I hate this room."

Ned stood up and turned to face her. "Then let's leave it."

Lyanna did not move. "Robert's changed it. He changed everything about it. Gotten rid of those skulls, completely refurbished it. It doesn't look anything like the room Brandon and Father were killed in. But he can't change what happened here. It's steeped into the very walls. It's written in the brickwork and the tiles on the floor."

"Lyanna, don't."

"Don't what?" she asked. "Talk about it? We can't pretend it didn't happen if we're to be here every day and Robert still can't bear to hear of it. You're the only person I can tell, the only one who understands."

"I just don't see what good can come of it," he replied. "It's done and Aerys is dead."

She closed the gap between them, letting him lead the way back down the steps. Even they were made from re-forged blades; sharp edges once more snagging at the hems of her skirts.

"Has Robert even helped you?" she asked, letting the past return to the grave. "Has he showed his face at all?"

"Once, on my first day. That was it," replied Ned. "He said you would be down to help more than him."

"I'll do what I can," she assured him. "I always do. But the King's busy planning the Tourney. I know you don't want it, Ned. But Robert loves them; entertaining people and throwing parties is what he's good at. Just let him have his fun."

When they reached the bottom again, Ned paused and placed a hand on her arm. She could see in his face that he was deeply disconcerted. "I was hoping you would use your influence to steady him," he explained. "He's always liked a good time, I know that. But don't you think you've over indulged him for long enough?"

The criticism stung. "I can't tell him what to do, Eddard. Robert's his own man and not one of us is as svelte and trim as we once were."

The words rang hollow even in her own ears, and the look Ned gave her betrayed his own cynicism. "Gods, Lyanna, remember him how he was and look at him now. When you next go to his chamber, look at the size of him. It will kill him, unless it's stopped soon. Only you can talk sense into him. Or is it guilt? Do you just let him do as he pleases because you feel guilty?"

If she replied immediately, Lyanna knew she might say something she would later regret. Instead, she drew a deep breath while gathering her thoughts.

"That's not fair," she stated, hands raised in a placatory gesture. "Robert hasn't shown the slightest bit of interest in being an active King and I have compensated from the get go, trying to be the best Queen. Before you got here, it was almost as if Jon Arryn was King and I his Hand."

"So what you're saying is, you've given Robert whatever he wanted to keep him out from under your feet, like a child to be distracted and placated while you do all the real work?" he demanded. "Is that what you're telling me?"

He shifted the satchel from one shoulder to other, the weight of the petitions growing cumbersome. Meanwhile, Lyanna was left reeling from the sudden outpouring of temper. Was he missing Cat and the children he had left behind? Whatever it was, he couldn't take it out on her.

"Look, I'll talk to Robert. But don't expect miracles, Eddard. I can't change who he is," she assured him. "In the meantime, you can help by not scolding me. I've done the best I can."

"And I don't doubt it," he quickly replied. "Nor am I scolding you. But there is something else…"

He let the rest of the sentence hang, leaving her to ponder what it was. After a loaded silence, she shrugged her shoulders. "What?"

"All this stuff with Robert, letting him get away with shirking his responsibilities," he began, sounding more cautious. "I can't help but wonder, have you done that because it suits some higher purpose of yours?"

He was faltering again, stumbling over delicately worded arguments. But Lyanna could not help but be stung again.

"I haven't deliberately shouldered him out of the way, if that's what you mean," she countered, impatiently.

Ned's voice dropped to barely more than a whisper as he spoke again. "So why have you brought Jon here? Because all of this combined does not look good. What are your real intentions?"

"Jon needs to be here, with me," she answered, sharply. "You know why and we cannot discuss it here."

But Ned was still agitated. He ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere except at Lyanna. Eventually, he took a deep breath and unconsciously turned to where the iron throne towered over them. The failing light in the chamber had darkened it, making it even more sinister with its jagged edges more sharply defined.

"I don't think you understand that Jon was happy at Winterfell," he said, a tremor in his voice now. "You can't see past Catelyn's rejection of him. But there was more to his life than that, Lyanna. Jon was happy; he had all his brothers and sisters around him. He had me. He had safety and security. No one's ever questioned it and sometimes I couldn't believe how well it worked. We couldn't have wished for better. But a few months ago, you swept back into Jon's life and uprooted him, took him away from everything to bring him here: a viper's nest full of people who would use him, exploit him for their own ends or even kill him for the sake of a castle in the sun. What for? Why now?"

"So now I'm selfish, too?" she retorted.

Ned heaved a sigh. "I'm only asking why! Have you stopped, for a moment, to consider what it is that Jon wants? Does he, as a person, come into this at all?"

Before Lyanna could retaliate, the sound of a clearing throat cut through the brewing argument. Both she and Ned whirled round to find Ser Barristan Selmy standing in the doorway, with Jon peering nervously out from behind him. They both stopped arguing straight away, before anything else could be overheard.

"Jon! We've been worried about you," she said, over brightly. "Haven't we, Lord Stark? Thank you, Ser Barristan."

She held out her hand towards Jon, signalling for him to enter. But he knew he had walked in on an argument and glanced nervously between her and Ned before approaching. She passed him over to Ned, who escorted him out through the main doors and into the castle. It was getting late and the boy looked tired. Meanwhile, Ser Barristan remained behind, waiting until Ned had gone and he was alone with the Queen.

"Where was he?" she asked.

"Varys was sniffing around when I found him," he answered. "I did not think you would be best pleased."

Lyanna was not surprised. "He's bound to attract attention while he's new here. Thank you for agreeing to watch over him, Ser Barristan. He means the world to me."

The old Knight laughed. "Even when he's sulking?"

"Oh, especially when he's sulking," she replied, lightly.

Sometimes, she thought she wanted him to work it out, to realise who Jon really is without her actually saying it. Others, she pulled herself in and tempered her dangerous urges. No one's loyalty could be assured, no matter how well they had served the Old King and his son. But if there was one person who could be trusted, it was Barristan. How bowed to her briefly, before taking his leave.

"It's an honour, Your Grace. I'll bid you good night."

Lyanna watched him leave before turning to follow Jon and Ned, back to her private apartments for the evening.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you again for reading. Apologies for this being something of a filler chapter. But, as always, if you have a minute, reviews would be very welcome. Thanks. <strong>


	12. Northern Pride

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you!**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter Twelve: Northern Pride<strong>

Like cats squaring up for a fight, Lord Stark and the Queen stared each other down in an air prickling tension. When they thought no one was looking, they exchanged terse words but lapsed into forced, stilted politeness whenever someone else appeared. Jon tried to ignore it, but the more he went over the scraps of argument he had overheard in the Throne room, the more it preyed on his peace of mind. He lay awake in bed at night, going over and over it.

"So now I'm selfish too," the Queen had said, sounding betrayed.

"I'm only asking why," his father had shouted back at her, that day. Why what? Jon couldn't begin to guess. "Have you stopped, for a moment, to consider what it is that Jon wants? Does he, as a person, come into this at all?"

None of it made sense and now they both acted as though the argument hadn't happened at all – at least in front of him and the girls. He thought of asking his father, but the mood he was in wasn't exactly inviting debate. The Queen, he had begun to view with a corrosive distrust. From what his father had said, it was as though she were manoeuvring him around a board in a game no one but she knew was being played.

When he did finally drift into a restless sleep, his dreams of Ghost grew stronger. As though his troubles were feeding his spiralling madness. He dreamed he was in the Queen's outer chambers, waiting for bacon with saliva dripping from his jaws. When she finally appeared, his wolf heart raced with happiness as she slipped him rashers of burnt black bacon – even though she was in her nightdress, her hair in a net. He could recall, with unnerving clarity, how she ruffled his fur and called him a "good boy" as he devoured the treat whole. He could still taste the charcoal when he awoke, breathless and burning with shame at how he had tried to lick the grease from Lyanna's fingers.

The following afternoon, the sun brought him, Sam and Fritha out of the dragon vault. A languid afternoon that saw them lazing on the lawns in the enclosed garden surrounded by shady cloisters; cooled by the draughts sweeping up from the open doorway leading down into the vault, where the bones of Targaryen dragons gathered dust.

"You didn't try to hump anything, did you?" asked Fritha, once he recounted his dreams.

Jon was scandalised. "What?"

But the kitchen girl merely shrugged. "We had this cur on the farm, when I was a child. He was meant to chase foxes and cats. But instead he just humped everything. Goats, sheep, people's legs. My brother said he even went for a chair leg, once. Anything that stood still long enough was fair game, I suppose; he was unstoppable."

Jon sighed heavily. "No, I did not try to hump anything. Or anyone."

She seemed to lose interest after that; returning to the book open on the ground where she lay. It was a simple book for children that Sam was starting her on, just while she became used to letter formations. Meanwhile, Sam was deep in thought. The remains of their luncheon – once more lifted from the kitchens via Fritha – grew warm in the heat of the afternoon. Ghost patrolled the perimeter of the gardens like a guard dog. He only returned when Sam proffered him a slice of ham – reminding Jon once more of the dream.

"Everyone dreams," said Sam, understandingly. "Even vivid ones that feel real. I mean, no one realises they're dreaming until after they wake. It's always the way. I don't think you should worry on it."

Fritha sighed and looked up from her book again. "If you're that worried, just ask the Queen whether she feeds Ghost, Nymeria and Lady fatty meats in the evenings. That way it's not suspicious and you can just say you're worried about their health."

"Yes," Sam agreed. "Asking about all three instead of just one keeps it general. Even so, Jon, I can tell you myself, they're just dreams."

Aware that his friends were performing the duties of their roles, Jon tried to raise a smile as a show of appreciation. But neither of them could understand how disconcerting it was to go to bed at nights and wake up moments later as a wolf. More so to be completely under that wolf's control. With another heavy sigh, he turned away and picked up a pebble, tossing it down the dark, empty stairwell to the dragon vault. He listened to it bouncing off the stone steps, before hitting the bottom slabs; dim echoes fading into silence once more.

"Eat something," Sam implored. "You look exhausted and you've hardly touched the food Frith brought."

Realising how ungrateful he looked, he turned to Fritha and apologised, topping it with thanking her for her continued efforts to keep Sam safe. She waved it away, before getting to her feet again to return to work. Sam took the book from her, keeping it with him so it would be safe from kitchen messes. While she walked away, he tossed another stone down the steps, watching the darkness swallow it. At the same time, Sam was fixing him with that keen look in his pale blue eyes. It was a look that seemed to see beneath Jon's skin, to his very soul.

"There's something else, I can tell," he said, giving even more weight to Jon's suspicions. "Something you didn't want to say in front of Frith."

For a long while, Jon remained silent as he gathered his thoughts. Distracting his restless gaze was Ghost, who had stopped to let Fritha pat his head before she returned to work. Once she was gone, he returned to patrolling the small garden. His white fur dazzled in the sun and stood out starkly against the emerald lawns. Once a third stone had been sent bouncing down the steps of the dragon vault, he turned himself around again so that he was facing Sam.

"The dreams got really bad the night I heard my father and aunt arguing about me," he admitted.

Sam smiled brightly. "Well that's it then. You're just upset over the arguing. Once they patch it up, things will go back to normal in no time."

Jon let him speak, even though he was wide off the mark.

"No, it's not that," he replied, before recounting exactly what he had overheard. "Father accused the Queen of being selfish, first. Then father said what he said. But that was all. They stopped as soon as Ser Barristan spoke. I wish he hadn't said anything now because they're still angry with each other, but pretending not to be."

There were no quick and casual dismissals from Sam now. The other boy was deep in thought as he mulled over the words, sitting cross legged in the cloisters with his back resting against the wall. He bit his lower lip, as though troubled himself.

"Maybe your father just feels like the Queen is taking over your life?" he suggested, at length. "What I mean is, she's been down here since you were born really. Essentially, she's never met you before. But she's come riding in after almost fourteen years and taken over, a little bit. If you look at that from your father's point of view, it's like she's usurped his place in your life. She's telling people you must be trained by Barristan Selmy; that you must become Kingsguard; that you must be Knighted – which is against Northern customs, isn't it?"

It was. Jon nodded. "But father never said anything before. He let her do it and so did I. So why is he accusing her of not taking what I want into account?"

Sam's expression clouded with doubt. "Maybe he just feels you weren't consulted properly. Or maybe he thinks the Queen even pushed you into it. You know, because of who she is and all that."

In his turn, Jon gave Sam's words careful consideration. As the sense sunk in, a weight slowly began to shift from his shoulders. "Back at Winterfell, Father and Lady Stark used to argue about me all the time," he explained. "I'm just used to causing bad blood wherever I go."

He paused to toss another stone down the stairwell. This time, they both watched as it bounced into the chilly darkness.

"Queen Lyanna isn't the same as Lady Stark," Sam said, understandingly. "You're her blood."

Jon had one stone left in his hand, which he chucked down the steps without looking, before turning to Sam again. He hoped Sam was right and that the Queen wasn't growing embarrassed by his birth status. But, before he could say anything, the stairwell threw the last stone back at him. It struck him by the side of his head, making him yelp from shock more than pain.

"Ouch!"

Sam was wide-eyed with alarm. "What the-"

They both whipped around in time to see a tall man, clad in gold plated, fluted armour emerging from the shadows of the stairwell. Golden haired and green eyed, he was the sort of specimen Sansa went weak at the knees for. But the scowl creasing his golden brow invited little by way of swooning now.

"Careful, you little cretin!" the man admonished. "That was the fourth time you damn near took my eye out with one of those cursed stones."

Abashed, Jon shuffled back against the wall again to let the man pass unimpeded. "Sorry, Ser. I thought the vault was empty."

But the man didn't pass. He stopped at Jon's feet and looked down at him through narrowed eyes. The green glimmered from beneath the squinting lids as he looked Jon up and down.

"If you're Ned Stark's bastard boy," he said. "I'm to tell you that Ser Barristan Selmy is waiting for you."

Jon grated against being called a bastard. Sansa was right: that piece of paper from King Robert really did change nothing at all. Defiantly, he remained sat beside Sam and returned the man's look with an equal distaste. Sensing the oncoming confrontation, Sam shivered and whimpered. A frightened sound from somewhere in his throat.

"And who're you?" Jon enquired.

The man looked like he'd been jolted, which satisfied Jon immensely.

"Who am I?" the man repeated, as though it should have been obvious.

It was. "Oh, I remember now. You're the Kingslayer."

_And in no position to slander me as a bastard_, Jon added wryly. In return, the man stiffened, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. The gesture alone enough to make Sam tremble visibly. Meanwhile, Jon got to his feet and drew himself to full height. He refused to let another high-born make him feel two feet tall. They could only hurt him if he let them, and whatever Sansa said, that paper made all the difference. He was nobody's bastard any more.

Jaime Lannister drew a deep, steadying breath as his hand left the sword and fixed on the cloak's fitting at his throat. Jon could see, plain as day, Lannister would have struck him if he wasn't the nephew of the Queen. But when he spoke again, he did so coolly. There was no fury there.

"As I said, Lord Snow, Ser Barristan is waiting for you," he repeated the message. "You don't wish to be late now, do you. Well, not if you want to avoid the abject humiliation of having your arse kicked around the tiltyard by a woman... again."

Anger swelled in Jon, choking out any retort he might have had. Colour rose in his face and he only stalked away to avoid having either Lannister or Sam see it. But as he went, he heard the man chuckle. A gesture that made him even more furious, to point where tears stung his eyes. He kept his head down and yelled at Ghost to bring him to heel. Furthering the indignity, Lannister was clearly going the same way and followed him at a distance.

"Ah, now don't be like that!" he called towards Jon's retreating back.

But Jon ignored him. He forced himself to focus his attention on the path in front of him and not look back. Actually seeing the smug look on that man's face would have made him do something foolish. Then that would be more ammunition for those who would see him humiliated. But Ghost was already picking up Jon's anger and baring his teeth at Lannister, mercifully preventing the Knight from getting too close.

"Your father and I have always been such good friends!" Lannister called out, jovially. Although Ghost was warding him off, Jon could see he was too proud to actually show his fear in front of the wolf. "Old Ned and I go back years-"

"You're not fit to spit polish my father's boots!" Jon retorted, unable to resist any longer.

He whirled round to face Lannister, once more growing defiant. But the Knight still had that infuriating smirk on his face, showing a row of neat white teeth. A lock of golden hair had tumbled down, lining his face. He pushed it back with one golden gauntleted hand with a faux-wistful look in his eyes.

"Oh yes, back in the day Ned and I were as thick as thieves," he reminisced. "I bet he talks about me all the time. And Ashara. Who can forget Ashara Dayne. Lovely girl... shame about what happened. But, I could never work out whether she threw herself off that tower because of the brother your father slew, or the babe he stole from her arms."

Perplexity chased Jon's anger away. Perplexity that soon gave way to disbelief. "Now you're desperate to goad me," he replied, refusing to bite. "Good day to you Ser."

Picking up his feet, Jon ran with Ghost hot on his heels. Out across the Castle yards, to where Ser Barristan waited patiently for him. Already their swords were propped against the back wall, in the shade where the steel would not grow hot from the sun. Ser Jaime did not try to make chase. Instead, he appeared to have gone to the side of a woman who looked exactly like him who was waiting by the corner. His twin sister, Lady Cersei. A young widow, from what Jon had heard of her. They walked away, arms linked, the bitter conversation clearly forgotten already; Ser Jaime did not so much as glance back at Jon.

* * *

><p>Lyanna checked her reflection in the looking glass, making sure her gown was straight. As she stood side on, Sansa and Jeyne arranged her train so that she would not trip on it as she walked out. A lilac gown offset with silver bodices and train; light and loose sleeved in concession to the hot afternoon. It seemed that summer was putting up a good fight against the on set of early autumn. The old Stark words ran through her head once more... Winter is coming.<p>

When the girls stood back and looked at her admiringly, she turned from the mirror and returned their smiles. Arya was sitting in an ante-chamber being forced to copy out letters and words in cursive. At least it was easier than sitting her down to needlework.

"Well ladies," she said, raising her voice so Arya could hear. "Are we ready to go?"

The youngest was out like a shot. Lyanna heard the chair being over turned in Arya's haste. But it only brought another peal of laughter on in the Queen as she recalled her own attitude to study. Taking Arya's hand, Sansa and Jeyne formed up behind them.

"Are we going to see father first?" asked Arya as they made for the door.

"I think we should, don't you?"

Arya nodded eagerly, braids knocked askance as she did so. Her Steward held open the door to her privy apartments, letting in a cool breeze from outside as he did so. Together, they swept from the room, train remaining mercifully out from under Lyanna's feet.

They made their way through the Red Keep, chatting quietly as they went. Only when she passed Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Cersei did she pause and exchange cordial greetings with them. They met as they were going out and the Lannisters coming in.

"I found your nephew, Your Grace," Ser Jaime informed her. "He reached Ser Barristan in time."

"Thank you, Ser Jaime," she replied, inwardly irritated that it was Jaime who was sent.

Cersei wore her fixed smile as her eye roved over the girls. "And these young ladies must be your charming nieces."

Not wishing to appear rude, Lyanna gestured to Sansa and Arya. "These two are, but the this Lady is a daughter of one of my brother's dear friends, Lady Jeyne Poole," she explained. "The youngest here is Arya. This is Sansa, her sister."

"Charmed," Cersei replied, stiffly. She regarded Jeyne and Arya as though they had come straight from her horse's bowels. But Sansa she seemed to favour. One slender finger was placed under her chin, so Cersei could see into her face properly. "Very pretty, little dove. You know, I have a son and daughter around your age. You should come and meet them."

Sansa looked thrilled at the offer, so Lyanna stepped in swiftly before things could get out of hand.

"What a generous offer, Lady Cersei. But we really must be going or my nephew will think we've forgotten him."

"Have no fear on that front, Your Grace, neither of us will be forgetting Jon any time soon," Ser Jaime assured her. "Good day to you."

Lyanna's face ached from making herself smile at the other two. When they carried on their way, letting it harden into a scowl was almost a relief.

"Ouch!" Arya squirmed, trying to free her hand from Lyanna's.

She didn't realise she was squeezing it. Apologising, she let go right away. "Sorry, sweetling," she said, kneeling down to kiss it better.

"Can't you just tell those people you'd rather poke your own eyes out with a sword than visit them?" asked the young girl, innocently. "I would."

Once more, Lyanna laughed. Loud enough to drown out Sansa's scandalised scolding of her sister.

"And I would have done too, when I was your age," she confessed. "But now I am Queen and even the rudest of people must be couched in soft words."

"Urgh!" Arya further opined.

Sansa tutted again, but Jeyne was hiding a smirk behind her hand. Luckily, however, Ned arrived just as the day's last petitioners were vacating the Throne Room. He approached them with his satchel over his shoulder and a hangdog look of exhaustion about his grey eyes. She didn't have it in her to be angry with him, regardless of his ever shortening temper. After he had kissed his girls, they walked together towards the practise yard where Jon was currently attacking his opponents of straw with alarming savagery.

"Go to the stands, girls," she instructed them. "Your father and I will join you shortly."

They were discreetly tucked behind one of the perimeter walls that lined the practise yard. But they still waited until the girls were safely seated at the opposite side before they turned to each other. Ned had let his bag drop to his feet as he leaned against the wall. Chest height, he could easily see over it and into the yard below. But Lyanna was almost on tiptoes to see properly. Although he tried not to, Ned laughed at her. A deep chuckle, resounding from low in his chest.

"It's not bloody funny," she chided, then gave up.

He carried on looking at her, sidelong. "Haven't you got any boys you can pay to curl up and let you stand on them?"

"Ha bloody ha," she replied, flatly. For good measure, she rolled her eyes as well.

Soon enough, Ned turned serious again as he turned his back on Jon's training. For a long moment, he looked up at the Red Keep, all the way to the uppermost windows that winked in reflected sunlight. She could tell he was trying to gather his thoughts, so broke the silence herself.

"In all seriousness, Ned, we cannot be at each other's throats. Let us have our differences either settled or set aside, for the sake of all the children – not just Jon."

It was an appeal met with an embrace. Ned wrapped his arms around her, kissing her cheek. Happily, Lyanna broke off after a moment and breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"Cersei Lannister noticed Sansa," she said, an undertone of warning in her voice. "Her elderly husband met with an unfortunate accident some time ago, so she'll be looking for matches for that boy of hers."

"What age is Joffrey now?" he asked,

"About twelve or so," she answered. "Tywin won't leave so much as a brass doorknob to Tyrion Lannister and Jaime can't inherit. So when Tywin goes, it all falls to blessed Joffrey."

To her dismay, Ned looked interested. "There's no denying he's a good match, Lyanna. It might even go some way to healing the, er, rift in our families."

The rift that opened when Lyanna became Queen instead of Cersei. Even all these years later, Lyanna could recall the look of incandescent fury in Tywin Lannister's eyes on the day of her coronation. Anger exacerbated when Robert all but forced the Lannisters to pay her homage in public and at the ceremony to show their loyalty to her. Tywin had been treated with the same level of suspicion as the likes of the Tyrells, who had stuck fast to the Targaryens during the rebellion.

"Perhaps," she had to admit. "But rumour has it all three of her children are illegitimate. Fathered by Jaime, no less."

Ned did not look surprised. "I heard about it. Lysa heard it from Baelish, who heard it from Varys, and then Lysa told Cat who told me. That's quite a chain of Court gossip there. How much truth do you really think there is in it?"

Forcing herself to be impartial, Lyanna shrugged. "Who knows? No one dare challenge her because she's the daughter of the mighty Tywin Lannister. But her children are all the image of her and Jaime. How unusual is that? They're still her children and Jaime is her twin. It stands to reason they look like her, and him by default. There really is none of the father in them, though."

Ned sighed, running a hand through his hair. She could see that he was greying now.

"And if Sansa were to be matched with their eldest and all this comes out into the public, it would ruin them and drag her down with them," he conjectured. "A bastard can't inherit."

"Meaning Kevan Lannister would inherit in Joffrey's stead," she pointed out. "It's not worth the risk, Ned. There's plenty far more suitable and far more stable. And Jon is still the more immediate problem we have."

Ned nodded. "You're not wrong there," he sighed, wearily. "What is your suggestion?"

They had been working up to this point for months now. But if she tarried much longer, the gulf between them might yawn wider still.

"I want to tell him, Ned," she said. "I've been thinking about it non-stop. He needs to know and I can barely carry this burden any longer."

While they had been talking, however, the session had ended. Jon had set down his sword and was now jogging towards them looking tired and flushed from his exertions. He took the steps two at a time and rushed up to his father like a puppy hoping for praise.

"Father, was that better? Did I do improve?"

Her heart sank as she realised they had barely watched. But Ned dealt with it expertly.

"Practise and practise," he said. "That's all you need and you'll get there. I'm proud of you. And so is the Queen."

She tried not to be stung by the fact that Jon wasn't interested in her opinion. All he wanted was his father's approval, which he had in abundance. So she remained at the side lines, waiting for them to finish their pep talk. But, as they moved off, Jon did approach her. He fell into step beside her and slipped his hand into hers.

"Aunty," he said, looking up at her.

"Jon?" she replied, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear. It was damp with sweat.

"Forgive my asking, but are you feeding the Direwolves fatty meats at night?" he asked. "I think they're getting fat so someone else must be feeding them except me."

Whatever she was expecting from this encounter, it wasn't that. She thought on it for a moment, hoping he saw it as she did; as harmless treats.

"Only scraps of bacon," she said. "And only Ghost. He comes to see me in the evenings and waits outside the doors."

Jon stiffened, a look of mild worry in his eyes. "Well don't," he said, breaking away from her. "He's getting too fat."

Stung, Lyanna watched him jog over to his father, all irritation gone from his face as he rejoined Ned, Sansa, Arya and Jeyne. She also cursed the sword fight. Ever since that day she hadn't been able to do right for doing wrong, in Jon's eyes. Maybe now was not the time to tell him?

* * *

><p>That night, not long after going to bed, Jon awoke in the outer chambers. The guards at the door were no longer afraid of him and looked at him with a smile. One of them even half bent, clicking his fingers to get Jon's attention. Jon's, or Ghost's? But it didn't work. He's here for one thing only. The sound of the Queen's heels ringing against the corridor outside has him pricking up his ears. But his wolf heart sinks when he sees her empty handed, the air remaining free of the delicious scent of seared meat.<p>

The Queen looked down at him apologetically. "Nothing tonight, Ghost. Go outside and run with your sisters."

Confused, he wondered why she had started to hate him. Trying to make a noise, he could only whimper.

"Seven Hells, Ghost!" she responded.

Then she withdrew inside. Eager for her to return, he got up and scratched hopefully at the door, sniffing at the keyhole in the hope of the smell of treats. She was back, moments later, and unable to do anything he sat down in a show of obedience that always won him treats from his master. The precious cargo of bacon was revealed as she opened her palms.

"Here you go, sweetling," she cooed, kneeling down to feed him. "Who's that mean, sulky boy to say you can't have bacon, eh? You're not fat, you're growing. Good boy, eat it up. Do you want some more? Don't listen to Jon, he's just being mean because he's still sulking."

_I am not a wolf; I am not a wolf _… Jon repeated it over and over. Wrenching himself free from the wolf dream, he awoke panting and sweating with his sheets tangled around his legs. Back in his own skin, the bitter taste of the burnt bacon made him want to retch. Trying not to vomit, he clawed at his own flesh – reassuring himself that he was a boy once more. _I am not a wolf … I am not a wolf..._

Rolling out of bed, he pulled on a shirt and the breeches he had dropped on the floor before climbing into bed. If he ran, he knew he would go out into the Queen's outer chambers and find her there still. Neglecting to put on his boots, he dashed out through the privy apartments, bumping into the Queen as she was returning. She wiped the grease from her hands on a linen towel she had tucked into her sash. She looked at him curiously, half alarmed at his sudden appearance.

"Oh, Jon don't chide me, it was only a little treat," she said, irritably. "He's a big wolf who needs a lot of food."

He had almost completely forgotten what she had said to Ghost. But he barely cared. He pressed himself back against the wall of the gallery, looking up at her.

"I'm sorry; I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I didn't mean it; none of it."

The Queen looked stunned for a moment, before closing the gap between them and wrapping him up in a tight hug. For a long time, she simply held him.

"It's all right, Jon. It's all forgotten," she assured him before gently coaxing back inside. "Come on now, it's late. You ought to be sleeping."

They linked arms as they walked back down the small gallery that led into Lyanna's private chambers. At this hour, all her ladies had been dismissed and they were alone. Moonlight shone through the mullion windows, illuminating the blue roses arranged in a vase on the table. A gift tag written in King Robert's bulky scrawl was propped against it.

"Aunty, before I go back to bed, tell me who was Ashara Dayne?" he asked.

He felt the Queen stiffen, but her facial expression remained placid. "Just an old friend of your father's. She's a long time dead now, child."

Jon felt his stomach flip over, unpleasantly. "How long dead?"

"Oh, must be thirteen years now. Maybe fourteen. She died during the rebellion. The only time we really spent much time with her was at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Why do you ask?"

The Lannister wasn't lying. Jon's heartbeat raced, but he dared ask no further questions. He tried to remain casual. "Someone just mentioned her and I couldn't remember where I heard the name. That's all."

They reached their connected doors, when she kissed the top of his head. "Goodnight, child."

She turned and walked briskly away; Jon watching as she went. Like Lannister, she did not look back.

* * *

><p><strong>Apologies for the late update. But, if you have a minute, reviews would be much appreciated. Thank you.<strong>


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